Sick of Shadows
by Lettered
Summary: Margaret and Mr. Thornton gradually get to know each other better. With conversation, balls, politics, and Fanny.
1. Chapter 1

**Sick of Shadows**

After Margaret threw her arms around Mr Thornton during the riot, Milton society began to talk.

Margaret did not mind people talking about her. She felt she knew the truth and that no false suppositions could affect it. But in the next week, she came to see that rumours had greater power than the truth.

Mr Hale's students began to send notices deferring lessons and visits to his home, and Mr Hale discussed the possibility of dismissing Dixon privately with Margaret, as he had begun to think they could not afford to keep her. Mrs Hale took a turn for the worse, deteriorating her health by fretting over her daughter's deteriorating marriage prospects.

Margaret tried to explain to those who looked askance at her that she had only been acting out of what she saw as her duty. She tried to explain that she thought that this was any woman's duty: she must stand against injustice; she must render aid where it is needed; she must remind human beings of the sacred contract between them all, that they must love each other, and commit no violence.

Instead, society saw her protection of Mr Thornton at the Mill that day as either manoeuvring on her part to catch herself a husband, or evidence of intimate feeling, grossly exhibited for all to see. When Mr Thornton had proposed to her, she had felt convinced he shared a similar view of her conduct, and it was this that had so offended her.

Despite the rumours, Mr Thornton had not made it public knowledge that he had offered for Margaret, nor that she had refused him. If only he would face them all and speak reason, as he should have to the workers, then they would see he had no obligation to her. If they knew she had refused him, they would see that she had only acted out of virtue. They would see the truth. That Mr Thornton did not reveal it only reaffirmed their sordid assumptions.

Margaret began to wonder whether she should reveal it herself. She had deemed the act of making public his rejection should belong to Mr Thornton, but she had not thought his pride so base nor his honour so lacking that he would not do so.

Only after time passed did her opinion begin to change.

Mr Thornton was Mr Hale's only remaining student. He came to Crampton twice a week. Though rather cold to Margaret, he was kind to her father, and solicitous of her mother. Apparently accepting her explanation for her actions, he had defended them publicly, claiming that they were no evidence of indiscretion or manoeuvring on her part.

The rumours built on Mr Thornton's defence of her, and people began to say that a proper gentleman would have offered for her. The stain cast upon Margaret was cast upon himself as well. Margaret gradually realized he had not revealed his proposal not due to his shame in her rejection, or his own wish to punish her, but in an effort to take some of the blame upon himself.

As the world began to close in around her, Margaret saw that Mr Thornton might prove to be one of her family's only friends.

Because Margaret always preferred to be honest, during Mr Thornton's next visit she requested an audience with him. Warily, he accepted, and she led him into the drawing-room. It was there that he had proposed.

Margaret struggled to hold her head up high. "I wanted to thank you," she said finally, "for your loyalty to my father, and kindness to us." Her eyes swept down. "I never suspected I might bring shame upon you."

Mr Thornton seemed surprised. "You are blameless."

Resisting the urge to fidget, Margaret said, "Other people do not feel as you do."

"You have plainly stated that your behaviour at the mill was . . . not a sign of an attachment. I believe you."

"Yet you interpreted it differently in the beginning."

Something twisted in Mr Thornton's stern, unhappy expression. "Clearly I was mistaken."

"Yes," said Margaret. "Thank you for believing me." She moved toward the door.

Mr Thornton said, "Wait," and she turned. "I know that it would be abhorrent to you to enter an engagement under false pretences, but it is abhorrent to me that you should suffer." She looked at him in surprise. "I would renew my offer to you if you choose to reconsider," he said.

Not very long ago, Margaret would have assumed he was taking advantage of a women in a desperate situation that he had helped to engineer. His behaviour to her family had been so kind, however, and his manner when he spoke seemed so straightforward and honest, that he seemed to her in that moment more like a friend offering her assistance than a man pressing his suit.

"I have not reconsidered," she told him, and felt the first press of doubt.

Margaret's parents, having by now heard the rumours spread about her, quickly guessed at the nature of this private conference between her and Mr Thornton, but when Margaret revealed the truth, they were surprised. As days passed, circumstances worsened, and doubts began to crowd in upon her, Margaret wondered if she should reconsider after all.

Mr Hale did not pressure her into any decision. He did not burden her by speaking of the financial or social troubles that would worsen should she continue to rebuff Mr Thornton. He did not even impress upon her the delicate balance of her own situation. In fact, Margaret felt sure her father had no idea of what she should do. Though she would never accuse him of such a thing, Margaret suspected her father was relieved that the burden of such a difficult decision did not fall to him, that the responsibility might be hers alone.

As for Mrs Hale, she was all tears and disbelief, saying "Poor Margaret!" again and again, just as she had once wrung her handkerchief and cried, "Poor Frederick!" She had acted much the same again when they had first moved to Milton. Then, both of her parents could only act as though a tragedy had occurred. They could not talk about it. They could not question it. There was nothing to be done about it, except mourn the injustices fate had perpetrated on all of them.

On top of it all was Dixon beating her breast, lamenting the situation in general. She condemned Mr. Thornton in particular, for Dixon always liked someone in particular to blame, until Margaret could not bear it any more, and even rose to his defence. One week after her conference with him in the drawing-room, Margaret took into account her doubt, the likely outcome of all her actions, and the opinions of her family.

She did the thing that seemed best.

She accepted Mr Thornton's offer.

* * *

A week later Margaret awoke, put on her best dress, and walked with her father to the church. Although it was everything she said she had wanted in a wedding, it was not at all the wedding she wanted.

She did not hate Mr Thornton. He had faults aplenty: he was too proud, he thought too much of business and not at all of other people, he had a violent temper, but recently, Margaret had begun to see that this was not all he was. She came to regret the manner in which she had refused him, and how she had judged him. She hoped they could endeavour to respect each other, if they could not love each other. And yet mutual respect, even friendship, was not all that she wanted from a marriage.

The wedding was a small affair, after which bride and groom took a private carriage for the three blocks from the church to Marlborough Mills.

"Are you well?" Mr Thornton asked of her when they were alone.

"Yes," said Margaret.

They said no more. She looked out the window the entire way.

At the Thornton residence, the family and guests partook of the wedding brunch. What the wedding had lacked in ostentation due to the constraints of time was made up by the meal. As she had at the Thornton's dinner party, Margaret felt oppressed by the quantity of fine things, as if the number of them could make up for the lack of elegance in their presentation. Mr Thornton was most solicitous of her, but Margaret was not interested in any dainties he could offer.

Mostly, the guests preoccupied her. Despite the vast array of the meal, there were not many to enjoy it. The Hales, Mr Bell, Smithers, whose son was a student of Mr Hale's, Mrs Thornton, Fanny, the Latimers, and Mr Watson were the only guests. The conversation was light and of no importance; no one mentioned the hurried marriage, or the incident of violence at the mill.

Once the guests had gone, Mr Thornton offered to show his new young wife her home. She consented, and he hesitated several long seconds before apparently deciding he should not offer his arm. They walked side by side. They did not touch.

He showed her the servants' quarters first. She was now mistress of this house, he told her; the servants would do her bidding.

"I have no wish to usurp your mother's authority," Margaret said, stopping before he opened the door.

He stopped too, with that slight lowering of his brow that she could never tell whether was troubled or a sign of reproof. "My mother will defer to you. You are now the lady of the house."

"But she has been its lady for many years. Surely such relinquishment will be . . ." Realizing what she was saying, and how it could reflect ill upon Mrs Thornton, Margaret groped for words.

"Difficult?" said Mr Thornton. Amusement quickly faded. "Miss—" He stopped, correcting himself. "I cannot promise that, for either of you, adjusting to these new circumstances will come easily. But my mother loves me very much, and you are my wife. She will respect you as she respects me. For better or for worse," he said with an arched brow, "we are now to be regarded the same."

"But," Margaret began. "Perhaps she will not appreciate—"

"She is not a tyrant." Mr Thornton looked annoyed. "Whatever you may think of her." He made to push past her.

Margaret laid a hand on his arm. "Please," she said, but he did not let her stay him.

He proceeded to show her the serving quarters, the kitchens and laundry, and the entry hall to the servants' bedchambers.

She wanted to apologize for misunderstanding him, when he had first proposed and she had refused. She wanted to thank him for what he had done for her, in letting his offer stand. They may have been forced into these circumstances, but they had been forced there together, and he had not let her face them alone.

But now they may be in the hearing of other people, Margaret decided she must wait. Their circumstances were their own, and they were private. No one else had believed the truth; only she and Mr Thornton understood the situation in which they now found themselves. So, instead of making her explanations, Margaret silently took in the information that he gave her, waiting until a more appropriate time.

Most of the servants were turned out to meet her, bobbing their heads as she passed. Mr Thornton knew all their names, and all of them seemed kindly disposed towards him.

"My mother will show you the kitchens in more detail later in the day," Mr Thornton said, once they had made a full circuit. "No doubt she can give you more intimate knowledge of the servants' daily workings. She has always taken care of those things."

He showed her the drawing room with which she was familiar from previous visits, and the dining room they had used that morning. The showiness of these rooms had not changed since she had seen them last, nor since the evidence of the recent feast had been cleared. They still shined in all their crystal glory, everything too bright for comfort.

There was an over-abundance of lace and ornaments, which cluttered and confused everything until one did not know where to sit or stand, lest one be in the way of something. Most of these ornaments, too, were bagged up, as they had been when Margaret had first seen them, as protection from dust. The riches of these rooms were not meant to be used or enjoyed, only seen and admired.

Mr Thornton went on to show her the breakfast room, library, music room, his office, and the morning room his mother used, most of which were similarly adorned. They shone so bright they sparkled, so many things white and pristine that they reminded her of snow. At last he showed her the room which would now be her own office.

"But what should I need an office for?" Margaret asked, perplexed.

Mr Thornton replied carelessly. "Letter writing and the like."

"But surely a sitting room will do for that."

"You have a small one connected to your own room, but this is much bigger."

"A small sitting room is all I need." Margaret looked around the room which now was stuffed to the brim with brightly bound books. They looked as though they were purely decoration, next to other sparkling trinkets in the shelves. The chairs were pink and green, with large floral patterns and shining trim. "I should not know what to do with all this space."

Mr Thornton seemed to find this inconsequential. "Nevertheless, you have it."

"But there is no need," Margaret said. She was used to a modest accommodation. "Why, if I were to have this room, I should have to learn some sort of sport to play, if only to make use of all this space. I have no other use for an extra room."

"I am sorry if the excess of my home offends your sensibilities," Mr Thornton said, in that stiff, acid tone he used when she had offended his own. "You can seal the room up, for all I care. It will still be yours."

"Mr Thornton." This time he stopped when she reached out for his arm. She dropped her hand, feeling guilty. To some extent, he was right. His house seemed to her pretentious. All this space no one could possibly use seemed designed to impress those who saw it, for only the truly wealthy could afford luxury no one actually needed. "I did not mean to insult you," she said, "or your home."

"I am sure the places you are used to living are far different from our house." He no longer sounded annoyed.

"Yes. But that does not mean I find your home unwelcoming." She stepped closer. "I am grateful to you for what you have done for me, and my family, for renewing your offer when I had so cruelly refused you. You have saved my family and me." Margaret stood stiffly, attempting not to reveal her agitation. "You seem to be expecting that I will make pretences to superiority and throw them in your face. On the contrary, I have come to trust you, where your intentions toward myself are concerned. Cannot you show me the same courtesy?"

"Forgive me." Mr Thornton's voice was still stiff. "After what you said to me that day after the riot—"

"Oh, forget what I said then!"

"I cannot forget it."

"Then forgive me for it. I did not know you then as I know you now."

"And what do you know now? We have not come so very far, only that we are married now, and must live with our feelings."

"I have come far," Margaret said.

"Then you have a better opinion of me?" Mr Thornton seemed sceptical. "You do not think I have attempted to buy you, and only managed to succeed now because the price of your refusal became too high?"

Margaret threw her head back. "Do you think that I would allow myself to be bought?"

"I think you are a proud woman, who is honest, and cares deeply for her family. I think you would do much to protect them."

"So I would," Margaret said, "but I would never allow myself to stoop to marry a man I could not respect."

"Then I've misunderstood you." Mr Thornton turned from her. After a while he said, in a thoughtful tone, "We were speaking of the size of this room. How is it that every conversation I have with you turns into an argument about something else?"

"Perhaps we have deeper concerns than what is before our eyes."

Mr Thornton's voice was rough. "I had convinced myself your view of my proposal was the same as it had been initially," he said. "I thought that I disgusted you, and you only consented out of extreme necessity."

"I cannot say that I love you, or that all my old views of you are wrong." Margaret sorted through her words carefully. As always, she felt the need to be perfectly honest, and yet she wish to soothe the pain in his voice. "But I appreciate what you have done for me, and I think that we can learn to understand each other. We have tried being friends, in the past. I think that we still might be."

"Friends." Mr Thornton did not appear overjoyed at the prospect. He smiled with effort. "If you think you can."

Margaret smiled also. "Only let me."

For a long moment, Mr Thornton hesitated. Then, abruptly, he said, "I will show you your bedchamber."

"Yes," she said, and followed him there.

The room was down the corridor, to the right. He did not come in, but rather watched her inspection from the doorway. She found the accommodation suitable, and not nearly as large as she had feared. Perhaps someone had thought of what her preferences were likely to be, coming from the background she did. She thought it more likely that it was the only set of rooms that adjoined another equal set of rooms, for she noticed the door in the corner that must lead to Mr Thornton's chamber. The furnishings, however, could not be helped: the room was full to bursting with lace and bright crystal, nothing with any warmth about it.

"Is everything to your liking?" Mr Thornton asked, when she approached him near the doorway.

She could hear hesitancy in his tone, an eagerness to please. "It will suit," she said, and passed by him quickly out of the room.

"If there are any changes you would like to make," Mr Thornton said, "you can refer to my mother. She will help you with all the things you need." Sensing that he searched her face, Margaret looked down, silent. He still spoke in that eager manner. "Do not hesitate to ask. I do not know all that is necessary, for a woman."

Margaret struggled to meet his eyes. "Thank you. They are wonderful rooms, Mr Thornton."

His jaw hardened. "All of the family's rooms are in this wing. Mother's room is on the end; Fanny, just there." He gestured. "Here is mine." He walked two steps to the door next to hers in the corridor, which seemed to correspond to the door she had not opened in her own. He swung that door open, and gestured inside. "You are my wife," he said, as if she could forget. "You may come and go here as you please."

She held her head up high. "Thank you," she said again. Inside, the room was simpler than most she had seen so far, the furnishings starker and less ostentatious.

He looked down at her, stern as ever, some hard thought slightly furrowing his brow. His eyes were unreadable, but the angle of his mouth was unhappy, as it often was.

"You said your mother would review the household duties?" Margaret said eventually, because the silence had gone on so long, and she could not think of anything else to say.

"Of course." He turned from her and led her back to the drawing room, where Mrs Thornton was working on cross-point.

Mrs Thornton seemed to be expecting the employment, and stood as soon as they entered. As Mr Thornton made his request for his wife, Mrs Thornton's eyes swept over Margaret in their dark way. As usual, Margaret could read nothing in that gaze.

"Of course," Mrs Thornton said, in much the way Mr Thornton had. She turned to Margaret. "You have seen the rest of the house?"

"Yes, and made the acquaintance of Mrs Dawes, the housekeeper. I confess, I have little knowledge of the running of large houses, as you may probably suppose."

Again, those measuring eyes gazed at her. "You will learn."

"I have no doubt."

"I must go to the mill," Mr Thornton said. At his mother's raised brows, he added, "Only for a little while." He turned to Margaret. "The Irish will have finished their services, and I must still attend to some of their journeys home."

Margaret was not surprised, even if she could not help feeling slightly disheartened. Their wedding had been hurried. He could not stop everything that was going on for it, and neither could anyone else. This morning must be an exception; the rest would be an ordinary day. Once, Margaret would have thought no day on which she was married could ever be ordinary. But there was not time to make it special, and no reason to do so. They had married out of necessity.

Mr Thornton went on, sounding extremely unused to informing a person of his whereabouts, who did not already know and account for his every movement. "You may expect me to spend some hours at the mill every day, until these matters are settled. I do not know how long. You must feel free to visit neighbours as you wish during these times, and learn matters of the household."

"I am sure I can find use for my time." Margaret did not mean to sound bitter.

"Then I will see you at supper." Mr Thornton lingered. "I sent your father home with a basket of the best fruit from this morning, and a portion of the duck. If there is anything for your mother—"

"Thank you. I will go by this afternoon to see how she fares."

Mr Thornton gave a sharp nod. "I thought as much. Mother," he said in farewell, stepping forward to kiss Mrs Thornton on the cheek. Then it was Margaret's turn, and he said her name. A light touch grazed her cheek and was gone; she could not say whether he had kissed her or merely brushed her skin with his. Then he stepped back, turned, and strode off toward his room to change from his wedding garments.

For the next hour, Mrs Thornton showed Margaret the house. This was much as her son had done, except that Mrs Thornton was more intimately aware of what duties Margaret could be expected to undertake: which rooms were to have fires at which times, how often such and such should be dusted, market visits, and meals that Cook knew how to prepare for supper.

After this little tour, Margaret and Mrs Thornton repaired to Mrs Thornton's morning room, in which Mrs Thornton imparted knowledge regarding wifely duties. Mrs Hale had made some mention of these duties before Margaret's marriage, but Mrs Hale had been so distressed that she had not been able to make the point entirely clear. "Poor Margaret," she had said.

Margaret had been frustrated by this. Her mother knew she did not love Mr Thornton, but she obviously possessed information as to why, when it came in particular to conjugal duties, Margaret was "poor." Yet Mrs Hale fretted so, Margaret felt unable to ask questions. This was nothing like Fred's mutiny, or Mr Hale's removal of their family to Milton, and yet her marriage seemed to be shrouded by a hushed sense of mystery, by shame.

No one who whispered, or spread any of the malicious rumours, ever said anything explicit about how throwing herself against Mr Thornton had looked. They all seemed to delight in scandal, to revel in the very indecency of anything untoward, and yet when it came to speaking frankly of what scandal was exactly, everyone was silent. Margaret thought they were all hypocrites.

But Mrs Thornton took it upon herself to explain the particulars of the marriage bed to the new Mrs Thornton, such that Margaret could be in no doubt as to what was expected of her. Margaret could see why her own mother had shuddered away from such explanations. Indeed, she was shocked by Mrs Thornton, feeling surely that a gentlewoman could not have been so explicit.

Once Mrs Thornton had finished, Margaret went off alone to arrange her room, feeling flooded with shame. She had wanted the truth, but now that she had it, she instinctively shied away from it. Perhaps there was a reason everything was so shrouded in secrecy. What Mrs Thornton had spoken of could never be out in the open. It was not something that was exposed or honest or proud. It must always be hidden away; it must forever be concealed. The world felt to Margaret strangely like a lie.

With these thoughts upon her mind, Margaret found the task of arranging her meagre amount of possessions into her new room more taxing than she had expected. The extra space was of no use to her, so cluttered was the room with adornments and non-functional furniture. The desk she had owned since childhood seemed heart-achingly simple and small in these surroundings, and yet she could not find a place for it. If she were to have comfort at all, she would have to move out almost all of the décor, and find a place to put it and explain its disappearance without Mrs Thornton feeling judged.

Margaret next made her visit to Crampton, accompanied by her new mother and sister-in-law. Mrs Hale had attended the wedding, but did not seem inclined to go over it in every detail, as Fanny seemed to; Mrs Hale was all too aware that there was an air of disgrace about it. Margaret was half afraid her mother might burst into more exclamations of, "Poor Margaret!"

Instead, Mrs Hale asked about Margaret's new home, and new neighbours, and it must be nice to have so much space to spread out—this with a nod toward Mrs Thornton. It was as though Mrs Hale searched for evidence to convince herself that Margaret was not so very poor. She could not survive thinking Margaret was unhappy, and so she must find reasons to believe otherwise.

Fanny opined that the wedding service had been too simple, though the duck delicious, and that she should have more lace at her own wedding. Mrs Thornton looked on, silent except when spoken to directly. Margaret could not decide if Mrs Thornton had grown so oblivious to Fanny that she did not hear her any more, or she was merely daring Margaret and her mother to reproach her.

Margaret informed her mother that she had not yet had an opportunity to meet new neighbours, but that Marlborough Mills was indeed spacious. Her mother should not have to worry about her. She was not in Spain; she was not lost forever. She would survive, and she would be well.

They returned to Marlborough Mills only a short time before supper, and Margaret retired upstairs to change with the help of Sarah, Mrs Thornton's and Fanny's own maid. Though Margaret had protested she needed no lady's maid, Mrs Thornton had insisted, and Sarah had looked so affronted that Margaret had agreed. When Margaret emerged from her room, she noticed Mr Thornton only just emerging from his own. He must have returned while she dressed, and had changed for supper also.

Recalling the information his mother had imparted, Margaret blushed. He still did not take her arm, only asked after her health and that of her mother. Her answers were on the short end of what politeness dictated, and the rest of their walk to the dining room was awkward.

The meal, too, was a quiet affair. Margaret could not tell whether her own presence caused the stifling silence. Perhaps all meals in this enormous house, with these proud, easily offended people, in this dreary town, were dour. The room was as imposing as Milton itself, with its stark linen, its shining crystal and silver. Everywhere it looked white as snow.

Margaret attempted some conversation with Fanny while Mr Thornton and his mother ate in silence. At first, Fanny seemed suspicious, but gradually she became animated, as they spoke of tunes for the piano from London.

"Perhaps you could educate me," Margaret told Fanny. "As you know, I have no knowledge of playing music. But ignorance does not preclude learning." She smiled, looking to Mr Thornton and his mother to include them. "Indeed, I think ignorance pleads it."

"Lord," said Fanny, and looked aghast.

"Dearest," said Mrs Thornton. She made no expression, only continued sipping her soup.

"You think that I should teach you?" said Fanny. "I never heard of anything so—"

"What is the matter with it?" Margaret said.

Fanny sat up straight. "One cannot just learn to play piano."

"We all must learn everything at some time." Margaret looked around again, feeling that this was also universal. Mrs Thornton went on eating. Mr Thornton was merely watching them. "Surely you learned," Margaret said. "You were not born knowing how to play."

"One must have a gift for it," Fanny said. "A yearning. A tendre. "

Margaret laughed. "I have no tendre for cross-point, and yet I have learned it. There are some subjects for which it is more important to have perseverance than passion."

"One must have a tutor," Fanny insisted.

"But I thought you might play my tutor."

"I can hardly imagine anything more ted—"

"Mrs Thornton may have lessons if she chooses," Mr Thornton said.

It was a moment before Margaret realized he was speaking of her. "I do not wish to importune anyone."

"Really," Fanny said.

"It is no inconvenience." Mr Thornton said, with a firmness that caused Fanny to open her mouth in partial shock and look to her mother for support.

Mrs Thornton went on eating soup.

"I must confess I did not voice interest in learning piano so much because I am aching to learn." Margaret hesitated. "It was rather the desire of making your better acquaintance, Miss Thornton."

Fanny's open mouth widened, then snapped shut.

Margaret tried to explain. "After all, we are now sisters. I thought I should like us to be better friends." Fanny looked so taken aback that Margaret glanced uncertainly at Mr Thornton. Then she quickly looked away, for she felt as if she had caught him wearing a private expression. He was smiling, his gaze softened so that it made him look five or even ten years younger.

Fanny, meanwhile, was still aghast.

"Fanny, dear," was all Mrs Thornton said. Then she turned to the servants, who had brought in the dessert dishes.

"I am flattered, Mrs Thornton," Fanny said. She did not sound flattered.

"Please, call me Margaret," Margaret said faintly.

Fanny's smile was nothing like her brother's, much more like a grimace. "You may call me Fanny. If you like."

"I do like it," Margaret told her smoothly, in her most dignified voice.

"Well!" said Fanny. "If you would like to watch me as I play and sing, I suppose I could let you. It would not be an inconvenience."

Margaret laughed. "I thank you for the invitation! I hope I can hear you play after supper, if Mr Thornton and Mrs Thornton are in the mood for a recital."

"I am amenable to anything which pleases you," Mr Thornton said. When she at last looked back at him, the smile had faded. There was still softness in his eyes.

"Thank you," Margaret said.

"Is the meal according to your tastes?"

"Yes." She smiled at him, attempting to convey approval. "We have not had strawberries at Crampton for at least two months. It is very enjoyable."

"You are in charge of the menus," Mr Thornton said. His manner was again almost over-eager. "You may change anything as you like. Mother?"

"This house is my son's. Everything in it is his to dispose of as he chooses." Mrs Thornton was not looking at Margaret, but at her son. Her eyes were shiny and black.

Pride, Margaret realized suddenly. Whatever resentment Mrs Thornton may have felt at being usurped in her position in the household, it was not in her expression at the moment. Instead, she looked like a mother who was proud that her son had so much to bestow upon ones he deemed worth of his generosity.

"Thank you," Margaret said again.

The rest of the evening Fanny spoke of London, sang of London, and displayed dress patterns, sheet music, and pictures from London. Or Mozambique, which, she confided, fascinated her. Sometimes she spoke of London and Mozambique interchangeably, and did not seem to notice. Fanny, in short, was a ridiculous person, selfish in the extreme, and consumed by frivolous things.

Margaret began to wonder whether Fanny had seemed so surprised at her offer of friendship not because it was unwelcome, but because it was unprecedented. Even her own family seemed to have learned to disregard her.

This made Margaret want to pay more attention to her. In doing so, she noticed that there was pink in Fanny's cheeks when she spoke of the things she liked. Her eyes were very bright. Margaret realized it reminded her of Mrs Thornton.

As different as these two women were, they were both preoccupied by material, not spiritual, things. Margaret had noticed that this was a characteristic of Milton people, and quickly condemned it.

Yet with the onset of the strike, she, too, had become consumed by material issues. Her father, still so taken with abstractions, seemed paralysed by theory, unable to decide what in the strike was justified, and what was not. But it was not wrong for one such as Nicholas Higgins to be preoccupied with the making of cotton, and it had begun to seem that it was not wrong for one such as Mr Thornton to be preoccupied with the selling of cotton.

Despite these down to earth matters, Margaret detected a romantic streak in both mother and daughter. It was there in the gleam in Fanny's eye. London for her was a dream that must seem as far off and remarkable as Mozambique, both inconceivable to her. It was also there when Mrs Thornton looked at her son.

Margaret wondered if Mr Thornton also had a romantic streak in him, whether there were moments spent not thinking of cotton or strikes, society's demands or scholarship, but spent instead dreaming of some unspoken ideal.

While Fanny went on, Mrs Thornton and her son were relatively quiet, and it fell to Margaret to make most of the conversation with her new sister. Mrs Thornton sat sewing, and Mr Thornton sat at the desk in the drawing room, writing something Margaret could not see. Either it was a letter or a ledger, some accounts to do with business. From time to time he put down his pen and appeared to be listening to the conversation. Whether this was for the sake of politeness, or whether he was actually interested in the length of trains in London, Margaret could not decipher, for Mr Thornton hardly spoke.

Margaret had never thought of either Mr Thornton or his mother as quiet people, but watching them this evening, she realized she had not often observed them unless speaking to them directly. She had so often argued with Mr Thornton and exchanged heated words that she had thought of him as easily excited, and quick to take offence.

But now Margaret thought of those times there had not been altercations when she had observed Mr Thornton and his mother. She recalled the Thorntons' dinner party, during which she had noticed the remarkable simplicity in Mr Thornton's speech, the sound answers he gave, short and yet solid. He had not needed to say much to make his points, only to speak as someone who had listened well to that which came before, considered all of it, and produced an opinion which addressed the information given and yet expressed a strong impression of its owner's thoughts.

When Mr Hale had been giving his lessons, Mr Thornton had listened with thoughtful interest. When Mr Thornton had spoken, his words had been well thought out and ordered. When he and her father disagreed, their arguments were not the impassioned discussions with which Margaret was familiar coming from Mr Thornton. They were straightforward, honest debates between equals, as Mr Hale rarely encountered. Even her father's friend Mr Bell employed tactics of rhetoric to which he knew Mr Hale's gentle manner would not allow him to rise. Not so Mr Thornton. Of course Margaret knew her father cared for Mr Thornton as a friend, but she had never stopped to consider why.

Mr Thornton at last gave up his writing entirely. Throwing down his pen, he stood to stir the fire. He remained by the fireplace for some time, listening to his sister and Margaret speak of inconsequentialities.

Eventually Margaret recalled what Mrs Thornton had said regarding wifely duties, and her responses to Fanny shortened as her thoughts grew apprehensive. She became aware of Mr Thornton standing by the fire, of the shadow thrown large behind him, while she and Fanny sat in the warm light, speaking of pleasant, pointless things.

The shadow detached. Mr Thornton came towards them. "You are tired," Mr Thornton told her.

"Quite," said Margaret, smiling faintly. She tried to reconcile the things that Mrs Thornton had said he would expect of her with this figure, and the man whom her father called a friend. Unable to do so, Margaret stood a little too swiftly when he sat down beside her. "I believe I shall retire."

"You have not seen all my patterns," said Fanny.

"I would like to." Margaret smiled. "If you will do me the favour of setting aside the ones I have not yet seen, we will return to them tomorrow. But I am afraid with the wedding, and two delicious meals, I am quite exhausted."

Fanny conceded again that the meal had been excellent, but still opined that a dress for a wedding should have considerably more flounces.

Margaret smiled, and wished Fanny a good evening. She turned to bid good night to Mrs Thornton, who observed her with raised brows. Margaret wondered if Mrs Thornton thought she was shirking her duty by her husband by retiring early. Surely her husband could come to her whenever he preferred to perform conjugal rites. If he had different expectations of her in this regard, he must explain them.

Margaret bid him goodnight last, and made her way upstairs. Sarah came to help her unbutton her dress from the back, though really it was such a simple affair that it would have been easier for Margaret to do it herself.

Once Sarah was gone, Margaret prepared herself for bed, putting on her nightgown, taking down her hair. She did all this in a methodical way, as much according to ritual as she could in these new surroundings. She still did not know whether Mr Thornton would come, or what she should do: whether she should knock on his door, whether he would be upset if she did not, whether she would have failed as a wife.

She did not know very much, she realized.

Margaret was brushing her hair when she heard a step in the hall. Her heart skipped a beat. Then to her relief, she heard him enter his own room without hesitation.

She put down the brush. As minute passed by slow minute, she began to wonder why she had been relieved at all. Mrs Thornton had explained that her duty to her husband was one she must perform. If he would not come to her, then she must needs go to him, and she dreaded that thought far more than that of him coming to her.

She would not know what to say. She did not know how long to wait. Surely he knew more about all this than she.

She did not have to wait long. A knock came at the door.

Margaret's heart beat harder, propelled by a sudden stab of fear. Finding her dressing gown, she pulled it on. She felt so weak for a moment that she glanced in the mirror, to see if she was too pale. Swathed in white, Margaret did indeed look pale. Her hair looked blacker than ever, spilled down around her face, the curls brushed into long soft waves. It made her skin stand out in sharp relief.

But she was never one for hiding, and it had been longer than politeness demanded to open the door. So Margaret went to it and opened it.

Mr Thornton looked exactly as he had in the drawing room, still in coat and cravat, still cast in shadow. For the longest moment, he said nothing, silent long enough for Margaret to wonder whether she should have attempted to re-clothe herself. A flush of shame began to work its way up her neck. She had only ever appeared to members of her family in such a state of undress—and yet, as her husband, he was now her family. She had thought it not improper to answer the door in nightclothes, yet perhaps he found her too forward.

"Come in here," Mr Thornton said, after that long pause. His voice was deeper somehow, and Margaret tried not to be afraid.

Wives for centuries had faced this fate, Margaret told herself. There was no particular shame in this for one who was married, nor could there be such excruciating pain, or else women would not continue to submit to it for so long. She would neither complain nor lament her fate. She would accept the future she had made for herself with strength and open eyes.

There was solace in this resolution. She would never again have to wonder what to do, or what it would feel like, or how much humiliation she could stand. She would be a woman and a wife, with full knowledge of all that was expected of her. She would at last know the truth, and there would be no secrets.

Margaret threw her head back and stepped forward. Mr Thornton took a swift breath, a sharp sound she could hear from the shadows.

At last, he shut the door and moved through the room toward the fire. This was the sitting area; beyond was the bedroom. "Will you sit?" he asked.

She came to stand in front of one of the chairs. She knew how to appear regal; she did it on purpose now. At last she angled her jaw, so that she might meet her husband's eyes.

"Please, Mrs Thornton," he said, looking down at her.

She sat.

He went over to the fire, where he moved a log that did not require moving. Then he came back and sat down, directly across from her, their knees almost touching. "We have to—that is, I want to . . ." He sounded lost in the way he had been when he first proposed. "I am sorry for interrupting your evening," he began again, resolutely. "I know that you are tired. But it is for good reason." He paused. "You know to what I refer? From your mother, perhaps."

"Yes," Margaret said clearly, "from your mother, too."

"My mother?" Mr Thornton seemed momentarily perturbed.

"You speak of my duty to you as a wife," Margaret said. "Your mother wanted to ensure that I was fully informed as to the nature of these duties."

"My mother," Mr Thornton said, appearing annoyed. He looked at the fire, jaw tightening. "I have given much thought to this. This is not just some—it is very important to me. But I have fully considered it, and come to a decision." He sounded as though he spoke with some effort. "I will not do anything you are unwilling to do."

"Unwilling?" Margaret said.

"I mean, what a husband demands of his wife. I will not demand it of you, for as long as you are unwilling."

"Why would I be unwilling?"

His brows lowered. "The circumstances of our marriage were dictated by society, not your own desires."

"And so you think I am unable to accept my fate?" Margaret's indignation flared like kindling. Standing up, she backed away from him so she could look down on him. "How could you think that I would be unwilling to perform my own duty? Do you think me less honourable than yourself?"

"No!" Mr Thornton also stood. "I say that I am making this choice, to allow you the freedom to choose. I would never force—"

"Why should you have to force me? A man of any honour would know that a woman is willing to do her duty."

"I assumed that you would not want to do it."

He spoke in his old, defensive tone. He was always the wronged party, always indignant. He had obviously no inkling of her struggle, of the fear and feeling of wrong she must have overcome to cross the threshold to his room. He seemed to think her a child, who would stamp her foot because she had not gotten her way. "Do you assume I would turn my back?" she asked scornfully.

"I assume that you would not want to lie with a man it was not your inclination to marry!"

Margaret flinched.

His loud, bitter words hung in the air for several moments.

She felt flustered and angry by his blunt language, but more so by his perception of her as a woman incapable of accepting her fate and doing her own duty. "Any gentleman would understand—"

He came toward her and stopped in front of her. "We both know I am not a gentleman. We have fully established that between us, have we not?"

His anger and words recalled to her his first proposal, and Margaret realized that she had made a mistake. The intimation that she would not do what was necessary felt like a grave insult. Yet the insult she had taken at his first proposal had been a result of misunderstanding his intent. "Mr Thornton," she began.

"Why is it, whenever I try to do right by you, to treat you properly, as I feel you deserve, you throw that word in my face?" Mr Thornton's voice was rough. "Our comprehension of what a gentleman is must be entirely different. You would know better, as you are accustomed to the society they frequent, while I have made my living among thieves and dogs and miserable people."

"That is not true."

"Is it not?"

"I know that you are—are honourable, that I—"

"Honourable?" He spoke tightly. "When I have agonized over this decision since the moment of you accepted my proposal? When I have determined time and time again that I would not commit to it, that I would demand of you a husband's rights, no matter what you said or did? When I have doubted my own strength to do anything but that? Only to learn that you find all this agony of indecision, all of this resolve to do right entirely repugnant to you?"

Margaret stumbled over her words. "I think we have misunderstood each other. You have promised yourself to do right by me, even at pains to yourself. You have merely not comprehended that I have made the same decision. I wish to do right by you. I am willing."

"At pains to yourself," Mr Thornton said.

"I admit to being afraid. I do not know what to expect. But I know what is expected of me."

"I do not expect it of you," Mr Thornton said, his voice hoarse. "That is what I made up my mind to tell you."

"But was not that when you thought you would have to force me? Mr Thornton, we do what we must."

"This is not a thing we must do. It is a thing we choose. Deuce take it." He looked thoroughly disgusted with the whole business. "To think I am arguing against having my own wife!"

"You do not need to!" Margaret came close. She lay a hand on his chest, where his heart thumped wildly under layers of wool and cotton. "You said we choose. I am choosing. I will always choose to do my duty, even when it is something I do not want."

He seemed enraged and horrified by this. He threw her hand away. "I want you to want it!"

Quiet fell after this exclamation. She looked at him in confusion.

As she understood it, duty was the reason women submitted to this. She had heard of women who consented for other reasons—fallen women, women who were not married. But Margaret did not think Mr Thornton was referring to anything licentious; she could not think he could be speaking of sin, when they were married, and what should have passed between them was meant to happen. She wanted to ask about this, yet he seemed hurt by her lack of comprehension.

"I do not want your duty, or your honour, or your sense of justice. I do not want you to do what you think is right. Do you understand that we are speaking of love? You speak in terms of a contract!"

Their marriage vows had been a contract. Margaret had not dwelt overly much on the idea of love.

"I know that you think I only deal in buying and selling, that I only want to accrue more possessions. But you are not my possession." He seemed repulsed by these thoughts. "I do not want to own you."

"We are married," she said. "You do not own me, as I do not own you. But it is a contract, of a sort. You must give me everything, and I must give all that I can to you."

"Not that."

"I do not understand."

Something softened in his eyes. "Respect, I would ask of you. To lie with me, I will never demand. It is to do with marriage, that much is true," he explained. "But it is also to do with love. I have little enough experience of it, but more than you do. I know enough to know that it can be an expression, on both sides, of feelings, of . . . reverence. I know that it can bring joy to a home, to both a man and a woman.

"I have heard married men's talk," he said. "I will not subject you to their profanity, nor betray their trust. But I have known men who treat it as an obligation of marriage, and men who treat it as an act of love. When fulfilled with love, it is not obligation. It is . . . testament. When merely performed as duty, it seems to me vulgar."

"But you said—forgive me, Mr Thornton, I only wish to underst—"

"Yes."

"You said it was an agonizing decision. If it is so very repulsive to you—" Then his decision should have been easy, she was going to say.

Mr Thornton looked at her, disgust blazing in his eyes. "I did not say repulsive; I said vulgar. And we have established, Mrs Thornton, that I am a vulgar man."

"No," Margaret said quickly. "No, you are not."

"If you could know my thoughts," Mr Thornton said, "the things I have been thinking since you agreed to marry me. The dreams . . . . It was only a sense of decency that allowed me to give you the dispensation that earlier you found so impertinent."

"Your sense of decency is what saves you from vulgarity." She moved to lay a hand on his arm, but he again jerked away. "We all of us have base thoughts, and cruel desires. It is our ability to control them which elevates us."

"It is easy for you. You have grown up surrounded by gentlefolk, by easy, comfortable society."

Margaret looked down. At last she noticed that her feet were bare, and that she was cold. Wrapping her arms about herself, she shivered. After a long moment, he guided her back to her seat, and went to stir the fire. "I invited you here to let you go again. Now you have been here a quarter of an hour," Mr Thornton said. He shook his head. "I thought that it would be so simple."

"I think we are adept at misunderstanding each other."

"A wonderful beginning." He turned to her. "Are we in understanding now?"

"I believe so." Margaret shivered again.

He looked at her a moment more, then stepped out of her field of vision. When he returned, he wrapped a thin blanket about her shoulders and retreated to the fire.

Margaret wondered whether she really did understand. He had said he felt that it would be vulgar to lie with her if she did not love him. She knew that marriage was meant to bind people by love, honour, and duty. Though she did not love Mr Thornton, she thought she could come to love him in time. Other marriages had been consummated based on only honour and duty, she was sure.

Mr Thornton had said he loved her when he had proposed to her initially. She had not forgotten this, but as he came to be one of the only people near her who sought to help and not condemn her, she had come to see his proposal as a selfless proposition. Now that it was done, she began to see that however honourable his intent, they were not on even ground.

Margaret felt convinced he had not married her in order to take advantage of her situation. She felt convinced also that his refusal to lie with her was of similar intent. By not allowing her to do her duty, however, he unintentionally created an obligation on her part that she could not fulfil. By loving her, and not allowing her to give him all that she felt she could in return, she felt even more in his debt.

He was not demanding that she love him. Perhaps he was attempting to mitigate the effect of the favour he had done her in marrying her, by releasing her from this other obligation. It only made her feel that she was failing him by not loving him, and thus she was rendered unfit by him to perform her duty as a wife.

The silence wore on, as Margaret sat curled on the couch, and Mr Thornton stood by the fire. Perhaps he was waiting for her to confess she did feel love for him, or that she wished to lie with him out of some other desire she could not guess at. Perhaps it was her duty to deceive him, and say she desired him. But Margaret could never perform such a duty; she knew that she could only ever be honest with him regarding this act. She could not pretend to feel more than a sense of obligation.

"It was not only vulgarity that made the decision difficult," Mr Thornton said suddenly, when Margaret had just made up her mind to go. He was looking into the fire. "I have thought before that I would like a family, daughters and sons, children of my own. Heaven knows if I would be a good father; only I would try. You do know that children come from this?"

"Yes." Margaret lifted her chin, wondering if he would ask her to lie with him after all.

"I wonder if . . . you could ever . . . by God." As he swore, he looked up at the ceiling; she could see the Adam's apple in his neck bob as he swallowed hard. "I wonder, do you think you would ever want me?" His Darkshire accent was stronger than ever, his voice rough. "If there is even the smallest chance, one day, you must tell me. I would live in hope."

She felt strongly the unfairness of the question. There was only one honest answer she could give. "I do not know."

"Yes. Forgive me. I should not have asked."

She shivered again. Shrugging off the blanket he had given her, she stood. "It does not matter." She came toward him and stopped. "You must teach me the proper way to say goodnight to you, for I do not understand Milton ways, or how man and wife bid farewells, or how we in particular should do so. I think that we have offended each other enough, Mr Thornton. I wish to make amends."

He looked weary, but smiled a little at this. "You must call me John."

Slightly shocked by this, though she knew she should not be, Margaret quickly hid it. "Very well then, John. Good night." She held out her hand for him to shake.

He remembered the gesture, and grasped her hand, swift and warm. "Good night," he told her.

Margaret went to her room and to her bed, though she did not sleep for hours.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The next day, Mr Thornton had more business to attend at the mill. He bid his mother and wife good-bye, much as he had the previous day, and left the women to their own devices. That morning a few callers paid visits, ostensibly to congratulate the new Mrs Thornton on her marriage, but in reality to gawk.

The afternoon was the first time Margaret had to herself, and she spent it visiting her family at Crampton. Her mother had taken to her bed again, and as Mrs Thornton and Fanny could not very well crowd into the bedroom at the same time as Margaret, they did not go with Margaret on her visit.

Margaret found her mother in low spirits, but stable. Her father was anxious to assure himself that his daughter was faring well, so Margaret reassured him that she was. She also told him about her letter to Frederick, not knowing when he would come. Margaret wished now that she had not sent for him; she had not imagined that she would marry Mr Thornton when the letter was posted. Mr Hale warned her that the danger for Frederick was still very great indeed, although he was gladdened at the prospect of seeing his son. Margaret could only contemplate the difficulty of keeping Fred a secret from everybody.

On the way home , Margaret cut behind the Golden Dragon on her way to Marlborough Mills, meaning to pay a visit to Bessy. She was uncertain how she would be greeted by Nicholas, being now Mr Thornton's wife, but when she arrived, the man had far greater concerns than her matrimonial affiliation. Bessy had died that morning.

Nicholas was in a state of half-denial, and Mary's eyes were pink from crying. Well aware that her own grief could be nothing to theirs, Margaret repressed her emotion as best as she could. Pushing the ache of her sore heart down, she clamped her jaw whenever she felt tears threaten. Instead, she sought the best ways to comfort this family, for whom she still cared deeply. They needed help, not her sorrow.

Her help entailed convincing Nicholas not to go out, for Margaret knew only further grief could come from that. At last she lit upon the idea of sending Nicholas to converse with her father. As Mr Hale was a man towards whom Nicholas felt kindly, and Mr Hale had much experience in his past as a parson comforting bereaved families, Margaret felt they might do each other some good. Nicholas, after some turmoil, at last agreed.

Wishing mightily that she could go with Nicholas instead, Margaret knew her first duty now lay elsewhere. With a heavy heart, she returned to Marlborough Mills just before Mr Thornton arrived for supper.

At the meal Margaret was quiet, and had little appetite. She kept thinking of her friend, the first and best—and in some respects, only—friend she had had in Milton. Still, she could not cry. All too aware of her new position in this household, Margaret did not wish to seem ungrateful by pleading sickness or leaving the table early.

Fanny attempted to revive their discourse from the night previous, and regaled her brother with tales of the guests they had entertained that morning. But when Margaret contributed little to the conversation, Fanny drifted into an offended silence, and glared sullenly at her food. Mrs Thornton and her son seemed no more inclined to speech than they had the previous evening. The dourness and gloom she had noticed then were no less present now, and Margaret was too wrapped up in her grief to worry if they found her own behaviour odd.

After supper, the party repaired to the drawing-room, and Fanny tried once again to engage Margaret with the dress patterns she had been showing her the previous night. Margaret tried to be polite, but felt such a strain that she could evince nothing which seemed like true interest. Fanny soon gave up. "There is far more interest in Mr Irving's tales than could ever be found here," Fanny said pointedly, as if to chasten them all, and flounced off.

Margaret sighed. Feeling that she needed to be away from these cold, silent people whom she had never liked and whom she did not know, she said, "I do not know about Mr Irving, but I think a book is more agreeable to me than cross-point at the moment." She directed this comment toward Mrs Thornton, feeling a stab of guilt toward her husband. Surely she should have tried to be livelier or kinder to him, but it would have only been a ruse. She could not bring herself to do it. "If you pardon me, I will be in the library."

The library, despite being rather too crammed with ornamentation, held a fine collection of books. Margaret pored over titles, which somewhat coincided with her father's, feeling no particular interest in any of them. She did not know what good books—even had they been her father's own precious books—could do when the memory of her friend's laughter seemed so much more real.

She was thinking this when Mr Thornton came into the room. Lit only by the oil lamp, his face was cast in harsh angles and sharp relief.

"You are not well," he told her, without preamble.

She did not dispute him, as he spoke the truth. But she was also in no mood to accept his scorn and dismissal of her friends, knowing as she did his opinion of Nicholas. He need not know of Bessy. "I shall improve," she told him, lifting her chin. "It is only a passing indisposition."

"You are ill?"

"I am well in body. At present, my spirits are dampened, but I shall recover soon." She thought that she would recover more quickly if she were alone.

There was a long pause. She continued looking at the books, though no longer seeing them. As far as she knew, he continued gazing at her. She did not care.

When he spoke, it was with effort. "Has my mother given you any difficulties in your assuming control of the household?"

Startled by this suggestion, Margaret turned back to him. "No. I am perfectly capable of cooperating with your mother."

He ignored this. "Does the house not please you? You find it difficult to manage?"

"I have not been mistress in a place so large, but I am well able to keep the affairs of a house," she said tartly, annoyed by all these implications.

"Then is it the fact of our marriage that has depressed you? I have offended you in some way, or you are embarrassed by me. The idea of being married to me, born with neither land nor the manner of a—"

She could not listen any more. "You think that I am moping? What could that possibly serve? That I should stamp my foot like a spoiled child and go about demanding things be different than they are would change nothing. I assure you, Mr Thornton, I am well able to accept the terms of my own condition!"

His expression hardened. "I understand, Mrs Thornton. Your condition must be abhorrent indeed."

She opened her mouth to protest.

He did not let her. "I am sorry to have trespassed upon your time."

She only realized then that he had been trying to ask her what was wrong. Regret tugged at her. For the first time that day, her eyes stung. "Mr Thornton," she said, and went after him.

He paused at the door.

"I—my friend–Bessy Higgins." Margaret struggled to keep her voice steady. "She died this morning. I only just found out before supper."

He slowly turned to her. "I am sorry."

"I know what you think of her father."

His voice was far kinder than it had been a minute ago. "That makes no difference."

She nodded and at last dipped her chin. Unable to cry, having no one in whom she could seek comfort, she felt so heavy. A weight felt as though it were settled on her shoulders.

He made a move as if to come toward her. She turned away.

"Can I be of assistance?" he asked.

"No." Margaret shook her head. "They have enough to live on, and are too proud for charity, regardless."

"I would have thought as much. I spoke of you. Allow me to help." He came closer. His voice was rough.

"No," Margaret said again. "There is nothing to do. She is dead, and we go on alone."

He reached out. She jerked her head up to look at him. Something in her face must have stayed him, for his hand stopped mid-motion. The concern in his face somehow made everything worse.

Margaret spoke quickly, feeling as if any moment all this monumental control she exerted to contain her grief would break. "Would it seem terribly—would I be an ungenerous wife if I was to say good-night now? I wish to be alone."

Mr Thornton's hand fell. "This is your home. You may say good-night whenever you wish."

"Thank you." She turned to go. He had given his permission, yet with him standing there so still as she brushed by, she felt ungenerous. Then she remembered, and rallied her defences. "Goodnight, John," she said, and extended her hand.

After a moment's hesitation, his warm, strong hand enveloped hers. "Margaret," he said, her name a shallow husk of a word on his lips.

Then he let her go, and stood back. "You had better go."

Not quite knowing why, Margaret lingered. "Give my good-night to your mother."

"Yes," he told her, and she went.

* * *

Mr Thornton was attentive the next morning, and Margaret was grateful for it. Not only was he polite, she thought that he was genuinely concerned.

Margaret felt much better. She had expected Bessy's death, and had long been making herself ready to bear it. This did not lessen her grief, but made her more able to control it, now that she had had the night to get used to it. Seeing that Margaret was not struck down with sorrow—was indeed, not exhibiting any of it—Mr Thornton found his concern put to little use. Shortly after breakfast, he excused himself to the mill.

That afternoon, Margaret went to call on her family again, bringing Nicholas and Mary with her so that Nicholas would not bethink himself the expedient of drink.

Nicholas directed his sorrow and anger at the masters. He claimed he had not forgotten "who was lying at home," and how much Bessy had loved Margaret, but Nicholas felt that the strike and its violent end had been Bessy's final disappointment. He was also angry at Boucher, and went on to speak of the "ways and means" his union had of punishing Boucher.

Margaret did not like the sound of these "ways and means," and questioned him. Nicholas's response made him sound no better than his own descriptions of the masters' injustice. His vehemence made Margaret concerned both for him and Boucher. She worried that Nicholas was consumed by his own grief, and that Boucher would suffer for it.

But there was nothing Margaret could do. Nicholas would not hear reason, and Margaret had no power to convince him otherwise. Nor did she have the time, for she soon had to return to Marlborough Mills.

Supper with her husband and his mother and sister was less oppressive than the night before, but Margaret was still pensive, thinking of Nicholas and Boucher and the troubles that plagued both men. Mr Thornton asked after her health more than once, but she assured him of her wellness. He could do naught but accept this, she thought.

He must have, for after supper, he explained that he still had business at the mill. He told his mother not to wait up for him, and bid Margaret good night. Once he was gone, Fanny, still sulking over Margaret's distanced treatment of her, excused herself to her music room.

Mrs Thornton remained quietly sewing by the fire, but Margaret knew the woman had been harbouring disapproval of her since her disappearance last night. Margaret knew she should be concerned by this, but she could not help being more concerned about the workers' union and Boucher's family. Her own concerns—even her marriage to a man she was so distanced from, and his disapproving mother—seemed trivial in comparison.

Still, she could not help thinking that the very issues which consumed her interest—Boucher's troubles and the union—had resulted in her own current circumstances. It had been her defence of Mr Thornton from Boucher that had caused such an uproar. At the time, she had considered herself a third party—not disinterested, perhaps, but certainly not directly involved. And yet now, she was more tangled in it than she could ever have imagined herself. Mr Thornton, the very man with whom she had disagreed so often concerning the workers, was now her husband.

Margaret wished she could discuss with someone all that she had felt this afternoon: her pity for the man's family, her worry for what Nicholas might do, her anxiety over the uneasy peace that had fallen between masters and workers, and her sorrow over Bessy. She had no one with whom to discuss these things. She knew her husband could have no sympathy for her feelings, that he could care less over Nicholas's and Boucher's fate.

And yet, he was by no means disinterested in other issues she struggled to understand. More than anyone else besides Nicholas and Boucher, Mr Thornton had a strong stake in all of the union's actions, even if his was the opposite point of view. And this, in Margaret's opinion, was better than nothing. If she could not have a discussion of sensibilities, she would have to settle for a discussion of sense.

"It is late," announced Mrs Thornton, when the clock struck ten.

"Please do not stay up on my account," Margaret told her.

Mrs Thornton gave her a measuring look. "You are staying up for John."

When Margaret nodded, Mrs Thornton gave her an approving look. Margaret felt a twinge of guilt. She knew that Mrs Thornton thought her earlier wanness, and her premature retirement last night, were because she was sulking over the circumstances of her marriage. Mrs Thornton had little tolerance for this callow behaviour—except in her own daughter—and moreover could not understand why anyone should sulk over the high privilege of marrying her son.

Mrs Thornton must think now that Margaret was making some sort of amends, that she was waiting for Mr Thornton out of sentiment or out of duty as his wife. How put out Mrs Thornton would be if she knew Margaret only stayed up for him because she wanted to discuss matters of social politics!

But Mrs Thornton did not know this, and bid Margaret goodnight rather more graciously than she had done so far. Margaret said her goodnight also, and set to wait with her book by the fire.

* * *

It was very late when the drawing-room door clicked.

"I told you not to wait," said a soft voice from the shadows.

"Mr Thornton!" Margaret started, and found that the fire had gone low. The room was quite cold.

"Margaret!" Mr Thornton exclaimed, coming around to the front of her chair, equally surprised. "Peter only told me that Mrs Thornton . . ." His voice trailed off. He had thought she was his mother.

"I must have fallen asleep." Margaret tried to shake her dreams from her, embarrassed.

"Why are you here?" He sat down close to her, on the foot rest across from her seat. He had on only shirt-sleeves and waistcoat. Of course, that made sense: late in the evening in his own home, he would have no need of coat or cravat. Yet she had never seen him in such dishevelment, and to her sleep-soaked eyes it was all the more startling.

"Forgive me," she said, struggling to sit up in a more lady-like position.

"Why are you here?"

At last she focused on him. There was a ghost of a smile curving his mouth. "I wanted to talk to you," she blurted.

Instead of seeming surprised, he nodded, still smiling. Standing, he said, "Let us go up. Peter has already lit the fire in my room."

Her heart hammered in my chest. "I thought we might talk here."

"In the cold?" He raised his brows.

"It only needs another log."

For a moment, he looked down at her, his long, sharp nose an imposing angle, though his eyes held no reproach. "I have already told you that you are in no danger from me," he said quietly. "I know that you only want to talk. In my room it is warm and comfortable. I have had a long day, and am tired. Will not you come up with me? You are tired, too."

"Yes." It was awkward for her, to accept an invitation to a man's room. She had to remind herself that he was not supposed to be a stranger. The man was her husband, and she had been to his room before. "I—thank you."

He followed her upstairs.

In the sitting area of Mr Thornton's room, Peter had indeed lit the fire. Mr Thornton had been right. It was close in here, and the chairs were soft—considerably more comfortable than the drafty drawing room. His rooms, she had noticed, were decidedly less ugly than the rest of the house.

They sat before the fire, where they had been seated the night of their marriage. "This is merry," she told him, because the flames leaping at the hearth made pretty shadows dance against the richly upholstered chairs pulled up beside it.

"I hope that you should always feel welcome here," Mr Thornton began. "If you need anything in the night,—I do not speak of marital duties—if you have questions or concerns, you only need open the door and walk through it. Your rooms are your own. I will never enter them without your express permission. But if I am working of an evening, you are free to enter. You need not wait in the cold drawing-room if you want to talk. I would not find your presence an imposition, if you were here when I returned."

In fact, there was something in his voice that seemed to say he would find her presence quite the opposite.

"Thank you," she said. "You are most kind."

He drew back. "I do not offer to be kind. I only know that we are not used to each other; you are not yet at home in this house. I want you to have a place where you know you will have privacy, and another place where you will feel free to confide in someone."

Margaret wondered what he thought kindness was.

She felt another pang of guilt, remembering the night before: how he had followed her into the library, and asked after her welfare. She had told him they might be friends, but he was the one who had so far made efforts to understand her feelings. When she considered what he had asked about her having problems with his mother—how such a question must have hurt his pride to ask her, when he cared for his mother so strongly, and believed Mrs Thornton to be unassailable! Merely the acceptance that his mother could clash with a new mistress of Marlborough Mills must have been a painful admission to him.

But Margaret had been wrapped in her own grief then, and had not realized the admissions Mr Thornton had been willing to make for her sake. She had only felt indignation at the idea that she could not manage that situation in her own way. Her pride too often got in the way where Mr Thornton was concerned.

"I meant to say you might enter this room or come to me that first night, when we talked," Mr Thornton was saying. "I did plan on it."

She smiled, thinking that he knew his own pride got in the way as well. "Yet we always end up speaking of something else."

Mr Thornton was all politeness. "Speaking?"

"What would you call it, Mr Thornton?"

"Perhaps making declarations." Then the teasing tone faded away, and he spoke with effort. "You must forgive me for speaking harshly that night."

"No more harshly than I."

"I did not intend to argue."

She looked away, embarrassed by the subject of that conversation.

Mr Thornton looked toward the flames, and for a while the fire crackled between them. "Of what did you wish to speak to me, then?"

"Of the workers' union."

A shadow fell across his face. "You have further judgement of my handling of the strike?"

Of course he would assume she meant to accuse him. He did not do so without provocation, Margaret admitted to herself. She did not want an argument. "It is Nicholas Higgins," she said. She described her conversation of that afternoon, Nicholas's "ways and means," and the union's anger toward Mr Thornton for not pressing charges against Boucher.

Mr Thornton frowned. "Then you would have me press charges?"

"No!" Margaret sat back, horrified, only then realizing that she had leaned closer to Mr Thornton to describe the situation. "The poor man already has enough to suffer."

"But he was the one who committed the violence."

"But he did not mean to!"

Mr Thornton's tone grew a little harder. "He meant to commit violence on someone."

"I do not think he meant anything; he was in such a state. Boucher was unable to consider the consequences of his actions, unable to think, able only to act. The terror, self-loathing, and hunger, combined with the idiocy grown and perpetuated by an angry mob—these compelled his actions."

"Then you think he holds no responsibility."

"Of course he is responsible," Margaret said. "Only he has more than paid for his action with the shame of it. And even were it not for the union, no master would hire him now. Considering his wife and children, that is far more punishment than cruelty from his fellows or the hammer of the law could mete out."

Mr Thornton listened thoughtfully, his head tilted toward her. When he spoke, it was with that measured, rational tone she had heard him use to respond to his business colleagues and her father. "Naturally, I agree with you. This is why I have not pressed charges." Margaret nodded, but Mr Thornton continued, "But have you taken into account Boucher's personal damage to you?"

"It was nothing—a scrape on the head."

"Perhaps," Mr Thornton said. "But you saw him lift the rock. And because you saw him, you put yourself in front of me. Do you see now what I mean?"

"You are saying that his actions indirectly resulted in my disgrace," Margaret said, "and my family's. You may be right, but this disgrace was mitigated by our marriage. It has only been three days since we were married, but to hear everyone talk, what happened the day of the riot is now considered as if it were good joke."

"Yes." He looked at her intently. "If it had not been for Boucher, you would not have been married to me now."

"That may be so."

"You would be free of me. You would have nothing to do with me."

"I am not being tortured," she told him shortly.

Mr Thornton let it go. "Then you mean that you disagree with the union's actions. You do not think they are justified in ostracising Boucher?"

"He is their man," Margaret said, happily following Mr Thornton's segue. "They should forgive him, and help him survive, now that he has nothing."

"How are they to do that, when they themselves have suffered so much from the strike? You know that we masters are not accepting any of the strike leaders to work again."

"I know." Margaret nodded. "I do not mean the union must make a living for him. I only mean they must be generous with him, and understanding. They must try to help him—not materially, if that is impossible. Instead they must help him find work, or send him somewhere where he can find it himself."

"If they help him, and he comes out no worse for wear, what then?"

It was interesting, having someone encourage her to look at all angles of the situation. It did not change her mind, but so few people Margaret knew encouraged such rational thinking. He went on, "Workers' strikes will always be broken by men such as Boucher, because they know there will be no consequences for their actions."

Surprised, Margaret asked, "Then you agree with the union?"

"I pay heed to my own business, and they pay heed to theirs," said Mr Thornton, annoyed. "We always do, without concern for what the other is doing. But if I were a leader of a union, I would behave as your Nicholas Higgins. There must be consequences for one that acts against the group. Among masters, it is not so very different."

Partially smiling at the irony, Margaret told him, "I told Nicholas that this afternoon."

Mr Thornton raised a brow. "How did your Nicholas like that?"

"He did not like it at all." Margaret laughed. "But he did not disagree."

Mr Thornton looked thoughtful again. For the first time, she noticed that he also looked exhausted. He was sitting back in the deep chair, his arms on the rests and his hands hanging over the ends—large hands, with long fingers, still strong even in repose. It was a careless posture, far less studied than the way she had seen men sit most of her life, though everyone was less studied in Milton.

If it reminded her of anyone, it reminded her of Frederick, who was always free around her. The way he flung himself into chairs and the way he slouched up against doorways always made her feel that he was talking to one of his friends, and not to a woman. Only, that freedom in Fredrick was boyish, and Mr Thornton decidedly wasn't that.

Quickly looking down, Margaret realized she was still in her evening dress, still prim and proper as could be. It must be the early hours of the morning. Bessy had died nearly forty-eight hours ago, now, she thought with a pang.

"What is your solution, then?" Mr Thornton asked suddenly.

"Pardon me?"

"If the union is to readmit Boucher into their midst, how does it prevent future violence and strike-breakers?" He smiled. "I am certain you have decided opinions on these matters."

Margaret felt colour rise in her cheeks. "I am merely an observer, Mr Thornton. I cannot know the minds of the players."

"I can offer you what I know. But do you think it would change your mind?"

"I also think the point of view of an impartial observer is sometimes the best one," Margaret said. "I can see both sides as the players cannot. Can you not admit that there could be some benefit in that?"

"There could," Mr Thornton said. "But it seems unlikely. As you said, an outsider cannot know the stakes involved, and so cannot understand." Mr Thornton looked considering—a look she had seen him give her father, a speculative look. It was a look men gave each other, business partners and scholars. "That does not mean I would not take an outsider's view point into account," he said. "For instance, I would have yours."

Margaret sighed. "I do not know what is to be done about Boucher. I do think if both sides took a little more time to know each other's "stakes," as you call them, then both sides could learn to understand. They should communicate with each other. The masters are not monsters—"

"Thank you."

Margaret did not heed him; he was being stubborn. She continued, "And the workers are not idiots. The workers will try to understand, if there are no wages to be paid. They will also try to understand that once there are more orders, the masters will pay the wages, without withholding sums to selfish purpose."

"It is a very pretty picture," Mr Thornton said. "It will not work."

"Why?" When he began to get his old look of annoyance, she went on forcefully, "You said you could offer me what you know. And like you, I feel that we may not agree, but if you have reasons, I am open to hearing them. Do not simply say that I could not understand because I am not involved."

"I would not do that." Mr Thornton inclined his head toward her. "Not with you."

"Thank you."

She thought for a moment that he might not say any more after that, that he had merely been humouring her. But then he slowly began to speak, and what he told her was the history of Milton's cotton manufacturing. Some of what he said she knew; some was entirely new information. He told her of the days before the cotton gin and steam engines. He told her of the rise of masters and of workers.

He told her about acts of Parliament. He told her of the atrocities committed before these acts, of atrocities still committed. He told her of children under six years of age being made to work in the mills—not by masters, but by their own families. He told her of workers dying due to dangerous or faulty equipment, and masters hiding the accidents so they could keep running their cheap equipment.

His story seemed to favour neither masters nor workers, neither Parliament nor mill towns which sought more localized governing. His words were not poetic, nor were they pretty. But they were more honest than almost any words Margaret had ever heard, and they explained things most people dared not speak of in the company of women.

Margaret would not have thought she would be interested in such a story. She disdained of trade, and yet had found herself embroiled in the conflicts directly pertaining to it once she moved to Milton. If she was to help people like Nicholas and Boucher, she must know something of it. In spite of her former distaste, she found herself listening with a new and growing fascination.

Mr Thornton's voice was deep, that low booming she remembered from the Thornton's dinner party. Periodically he gestured—absent movements, a careless sweep of a broad palm with its long long fingers—as though to grasp something intangible.

He leaned in to put another log on the fire. The flames danced up to lick his face, his exposed neck, and his white collar, and to play against the thin fabric of his sleeves until he sat back, half shadowed once more.

"This might seem like a history lesson, but it is still going on," he said. "This is why we cannot speak as men, as you would have us do. Lord knows I would like to," he did not seem to notice his language, "but to them, I am not John Thornton. I am a long line of masters who have perpetrated injustice and cruelty. Even if I would like to know your Nicholas Higgins, I cannot. If he always thinks the same of me, I must needs think the same of him—that he is not Nicholas Higgins, but a hand. He and his union are determined to use strikes, the law, and by God, their very life's blood, to keep masters "honest", as they call it—when in reality it is to keep us as afraid of them as they are of us."

He was frowning into the fire as he said this, an expression of disgust on his face. Once she might have interpreted this as disgust for the workers, but now she thought that it was disgust for the situation, along with sorrow, too.

He looked up. "I am sorry. This must be boring for you."

"On the contrary."

He scrubbed his face with his hand, and she remembered how weary he must be, they both must be. It was another thing she rarely saw a man do. It was too casual. Because it was such a natural, absent movement, it seemed to her intimate to watch.

"It is no fit conversation for a lady," he said, sounding unhappy with himself.

She recalled the only time besides their wedding she had had a chance to see him interact with any ladies besides those related to him. He had not talked to the ladies at his annual dinner very much, and when he had, he had been quite formal in his address. She supposed that here was a man who was not so very often in mixed company, who was more used to speaking to his business compatriots than polite society. She wondered if that was why he had said he loved her, when he first proposed: she was one of the only ladies with whom he had spent significant portions of time.

She wondered if his feelings toward her had or would change when he realized she was not very much like many other ladies; she was not very interested in conversation that was thought fit for them.

And yet he had been open in this conversation. She did not know whether it was out of respect for her, or whether he had merely forgotten she was a woman. She could not read the answer in the tired lines of his face, in the frown creasing his brow.

"I am interested in it," Margaret told him. "I do not know whether what you have said has affected my opinions in any significant ways. I will have to re-examine them, and determine what I think now."

For a moment, the unhappy look melted. He looked surprised and gratified. "I confess I am interested in the result," he said.

She stifled a yawn in response.

Chuckling, he stood and offered her his hand. She took it and stood. "You are tired," he said.

"Yes." Margaret yawned again. "Sarah will be abed. It seems ridiculous to wake her to change clothes now."

There was a long pause, and then Mr Thornton let go of her hand. "If you require assistance, you must wake her."

"I do not. I think it is equally ridiculous that a servant should help undress me when I am perfectly capable of doing it myself."

"Then do not call her," Mr Thornton said shortly, and went to bank the fire.

Mortified, Margaret wondered what had possessed her to mention her clothes in such a way, at such a late hour. Yet they had been having such a free discussion; it had seemed just as ridiculous to keep the aura of privacy around such practical matters. She could have been talking to Frederick, who used to tease her when Dixon had to help dress her hair, or Henry . . . .

She recalled that speaking freely to Henry had led to false assumptions on his part. She must watch her tongue, were she not to give Mr Thornton the wrong ideas. The next moment she remembered that it was Mr Thornton who had determined that they should not consummate their marriage, and had added the stipulation that she must love him in order to lie with him. She could have brought herself to lie with him for duty's sake, and she considered that just. It was his own choice if he wished her to feel a thing she could not force.

"The fire should be lit in your room," Mr Thornton told her. He no longer sounded snappish, only very weary. "Jane will have lit it before retiring, though now it will be low."

"Yes." Margaret walked over to stand beside him. "Thank you for our conversation," she told him. "I was most interested."

His eyes seemed to bore into her own. "You are welcome."

"Goodnight, John." She put out her hand.

He clasped it, and she remembered how those long fingers had looked against the firelight. "Margaret," he said, and released her hand. He moved away, and she retired to her room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Over the next week, Margaret's days settled into a routine.

In the mornings, Margaret took breakfast with her husband and Mrs Thornton. Mr Thornton rose early in order to have enough daylight hours at the mill, Mrs Thornton had no doubt developed the habit from the long years when her son had worked to support them all, and the Hales had always risen early in the country. At Marlborough Mills, it was only Fanny who did not deign to rise before eight.

Margaret grew more used to Mrs Thornton and his son during their morning meal. Teatime was all for Fanny and supper time was more Fanny. But during breakfast, without Fanny's incessant chatter, Margaret felt she came to know her husband and his mother a little better. She did not feel as though she became privy to their inmost thoughts—discussion at breakfast was primarily topical—but Margaret became used to their manner of expressing themselves, and even grew to admire it.

These quiet morning were all much more like what Margaret was used to than the elaborate meals served in the stilted dining room. The breakfast room was the airiest room in the house; the furnishings were simplistic, the meals light.

"I like these breakfasts," she told Mr Thornton one morning. "They remind me of meals we took at Helstone." Those had been easier times, when every day had been quiet and calm, full of the simple, routine tasks that filled one's day.

Mr Thornton's eyes seemed to soften.

"It does not seem to me as though they would be similar," Mrs Thornton said. "For one thing, there would not be the sound of looms going in the South. No doubt there would be birds chirping and . . ." Mrs Thornton seemed at a loss to determine what could be as insipid as the chirping of birds, and then went on, "sheep."

Margaret hid a smile. "There were not many sheep in the vicinity of Helstone, Mrs Thornton," she said, "though one might often be awakened by a cock's crow in the morning."

Mrs Thornton gave her a look as if to say, "You see?" Instead she said, "In Milton, by the time the cocks awake, their crows are already drowned out by the sounds of industry."

Mr Thornton was not paying attention to his mother, Margaret thought. "Why does breakfast here remind you of Helstone?" he asked.

"I was thinking that it is quiet," Margaret said, smiling ruefully. "I forgot about the 'sounds of industry.' At Helstone, the meals were always very simple. We sat together, as a family. It—" She cut herself off when she realized that Mr Thornton was looking at her in that way again. While she was not adverse to his pleasure, she had not meant anything at all intimate in her statement. That he should so interpret it made her uncomfortable. Briefly, she thought of his feelings, and the obligation in their marriage she could not fulfil. "I liked it," she concluded.

There was a silence, and then Mrs Thornton said stiffly, "If you dislike the lunch-time or the supper meals, you must speak to Cook. I am sure we can find something simple to suit you."

Margaret looked down at her fruit and toast and repressed a sigh. "I did not mean other meals did not suit me," she said. When she looked again, Mr Thornton seemed preoccupied by his porridge, and did not look back at her.

Mr Thornton and his mother were quiet people, but most of the time, the quiet was not uncomfortable. This was the silence of people who did not always need to hear themselves speaking, of people who spoke straightforwardly when a thing needed to be said, instead of circumnavigating delicate subjects.

Often Mrs Thornton spoke of the mill—not of workers and unions, or the things that particularly interested Margaret, but of day-to-day business: how much of an order was filled, the rate of production, the quality of an overseer, the investment of capital. Sometimes Mrs Thornton spoke of Milton society, but this discussion never digressed into speculation on who was courting whom. She did not seem very interested in the gossip that so consumed Fanny, and she never spoke of the weather.

Mr Thornton answered his mother's questions regarding his business with frank and full disclosure. He never seemed inclined to hide any of his business affairs, either from his mother or his wife, nor did he rebuff Mrs Thornton's opinions on the grounds of her sex or relation to him. He spoke freely, as though they both had the capacity to understand what concerned him.

At first, Margaret listened to these conversations with concealed distaste. She had always claimed never to be interested in business or trade. Such discussion over breakfast seemed to her vulgar. However, as one day passed to the next, she realized that these conversations, just like her conversation with Mr Thornton regarding the institution of cotton trade, could teach her much about the plights of men like Nicholas and Boucher.

This was her opportunity to be the impartial observer they had spoken of when she had asked Mr Thornton about Boucher. Perhaps the better she listened, the better she would learn Milton ways, and the more she could help poor souls like him, or even Bessy.

Once Margaret was resigned to listening to these conversations, she found her interest growing, until she was actually looking forward to them. She sat with such silent attention that one might have been hard pressed to determine whether she was listening at all. Yet Margaret absorbed everything, learning more than she had ever known about the running of a business, and all that a master must do to remain prosperous.

Slowly, Margaret grew impressed by Mr Thornton's authority in business situations, and his grasp of so many details. She often thought of this in the context of his story regarding Milton's cotton industry; he seemed to her integral to that story now. But Margaret marvelled also at Mrs Thornton's obvious understanding of so much of this profession. Margaret felt certain that had Mrs Thornton run her own mill, she would be as successful as or more so than her son.

What impressed Margaret most of all, however, was the open discourse between the two of them. Mr Thornton did not exactly impart trade secrets, and Mrs Thornton did not act as though she had authority in running the mill. Yet they were so frank with each other, it reminded Margaret of the method of her father's declaration of his decision to move them to Milton. She remembered how they never spoke of Frederick. Even the circumstances of Margaret's own marriage—her disgrace in Milton society, the decision she had had to make to marry Mr Thornton—had seemed stifled by a strange, oppressive silence.

Margaret felt that she had wished for this openness that mother and son so obviously shared. She had wished for it without even being aware that it could exist.

Once breakfast was over, Mr Thornton went to the mill. He always bid his mother and Margaret farewell. He said Margaret's name when he said goodbye, as he had that first morning, and brushed her cheek with what she came to believe must be his lips, though it was barely a touch.

Sometimes he spent longer bidding his mother good-bye, inquiring after some mutual acquaintance, reminding her of some small thing, but with Margaret, his farewell was always brief. Yet it was always Margaret he looked at last, and sometimes she caught a strange, avid look in his eye. It was as if he was drinking her in before he left for the day, as if he did not want to forget her face, or thought she might be gone come evening.

After his departure, Mrs Thornton and Margaret busied themselves with household tasks, while Fanny arose and took breakfast. Margaret was still learning the ways of the household, and often used this time to get to know the servants. Though she was set upon not overhauling it immediately in respect for Mrs Thornton's sentiments, Margaret was also changing her room little by little so that it became a place that suited her.

One thing that Mrs Thornton insisted upon was seeing that Margaret be measured for new dresses. Though Margaret had never been very interested in her apparel, she understood the need. Mr Thornton may be a manufacturer, but he was considerably wealthy. The grey and brown frocks, which had until now well suited Margaret, were unfashionable and dowdy in comparison to what Hannah Thornton thought a Mrs Thornton's attire should be.

Mr Thornton should probably have felt the same way as his mother, had he been a London man, but he was not. Margaret suspected that he had as little care for what dress she wore as she had. Still, Mrs Thornton seemed to think he would mind, and like many ridiculous social necessities, Margaret submitted herself to the fittings and selection of fabric with grace. She must submit, if she were to have any control over the situation and not find herself costumed in something approximating Fanny's magenta tartan.

The Thornton women stayed in for most of the first week, as many who had not come to the wedding had promised to call on Mr Thornton's new bride. Margaret remembered some of these visitors from the Thorntons' annual dinner, but in this context they were significantly less interesting.

The men who came to call with their wives or sisters were constrained to speeches about things they thought interested the women. Neither Mr Thornton nor their colleagues were present in order for them to discuss business, which at the dinner had so fascinated Margaret. The forthright and blunt manner of Milton people was significantly less charming when restricted to comments on fashion, children, and who might get married next.

They spoke more freely of Margaret's wedding than Margaret had expected. Of course, the marriage must be acknowledged, but Margaret had thought the shameful circumstances of it would cause people to speak little of the wedding. Yet neither Mrs Thornton nor Fanny seemed to mind all this bluntness, and Margaret decided this was yet another thing to which Southern sensibilities made her sensitive. It must be more common, or not such a disgraceful thing, to be married in such quick order in the North.

Because Milton society seemed so much more open regarding an issue of disgrace than the society with which she was familiar, Margaret sometimes wondered what it would have been like had the incident at the riot happened anywhere else. She had resented Milton society for their rumours and gossip. She had thought there were more dignified people elsewhere who would have made an effort to understand the situation, instead of jumping to wild conclusions.

Yet when Margaret compared London society to this one, she found London society no more honest, and far more secretive. The disgrace surrounding her there might not have been so openly spoken of, but she would nevertheless have been disgraced, and that would have poisoned her associations with everyone she knew. Despite the rampant gossip before the marriage, the way that everyone in Milton was now so frank about what had happened led Margaret to believe that they'd forgiven or forgotten her perceived indiscretions. In London, she did not think everything would have been so simple.

On the other hand, Margaret could not imagine the situation at all in Helstone. She had only ever spent her childhood and summers there, and the few months before moving to Milton. It seemed too idyllic a place to unfairly condemn her for her actions during the riot, and yet she wondered whether she was perhaps being too idealistic.

In the early afternoon, Margaret and her in-laws took luncheon, either with company or without. While this was again held in the morning room, the simplicity of their surroundings was often forgotten amidst Fanny's observations of their recent visitors. Fanny's conversations similarly filled the evening hours, when Mrs Thornton, Mr Thornton, Margaret, and Fanny retired to the drawing room after supper.

Besides gossip, Fanny only had two real topics of conversation: London and Mozambique.

"Do you like the Alhambra?" Margaret asked her one evening, recalling something Fanny had said to her on the first day of their acquaintance.

"From _Tales of the Alhambra_, yes," agreed Fanny.

"But the Alhambra is in Spain," Margaret pointed out. "You said once that you would like to go there, but now you speak only of London and Mozambique."

Fanny just looked at her. "That was last month."

"Does that mean you no longer wish to go there?"

For a while, Fanny was thoughtful. "Of the places I should like to go," she began at last, "I most prefer Mozambique, then London, and third, the Alhambra."

"This is important to know, should you be soon pressed to make a choice."

"One never knows," Fanny said, a little tartly. "It is not impossible."

"Of course not." Margaret regretted her joke. "London is but a train ride."

"Indeed." Fanny set her chin in a way that suddenly reminded Margaret of Mr Thornton. "I have told Mother often enough, and she will still not consent to let me go." She glared stonily in the direction of Mrs Thornton, who sat darning and did not deign to notice her daughter's pointed stare. After several seconds of this intense look, Fanny got bored of it, and shrugged. "But Spain is not so very far, either."

"It feels far." Margaret thought of the letter she had sent. "How long do you think it would be to get there?"

"Three weeks," Fanny said promptly. "Good weather permitting."

"Surely it must be more." If Fanny were correct, Fredrick would have received her letter. Margaret had sent it the day of the riot; one month after the riot, she had been married. She had now been married one week, which meant they should hear from Frederick in one week's time. It did not seem soon enough, and yet it seemed too soon.

"We shall consult the atlas," announced Fanny. Her abrupt departure from the room brooked no dissent.

When she returned to the drawing room, Fanny held a large book. Though the book was modern, with sleek ink and detailed maps, the pages were well worn. Thinking of Fanny's list of places she should like to go, Margaret thought that her list must have been reordered far more often than just this once to accommodate Mozambique and the Alhambra.

Mr Thornton watched this presentation of the atlas from his desk. He often worked there in the evenings, while his mother sewed.

"I know that John is not interested in the atlas," Fanny said to Margaret, apparently having noticed her brother's attention. "All he can think about is Milton." And yet she turned to him.

Something ticked in Mr Thornton's face. "Do not show her the whole thing," he told Fanny quietly, and went back to his writing.

Fanny's mouth tightened. "You see he is an old bore."

Margaret would have liked to spend time reading, but Fanny was eager to talk, and the others did not seem much inclined to listen. During these times, Margaret often recalled her impression of Fanny that first evening of her marriage: her idea that Fanny must not have had many friends. Margaret wondered why, if Fanny had no one to speak to, her brother did not make more of an effort. Fanny had obviously wanted him to join them in looking at the atlas.

"I am willing to look at whatever you will show me, Fanny." Margaret pointedly did not look at Mr Thornton while she said this, lest he find rebuke in her statement. Mr Thornton said nothing, and Fanny began to show her her favourite maps in the atlas. When Margaret chanced to glance up at him, he was engrossed by the ledger at his desk—most likely determined to ignore their inconsequential chatter, Margaret supposed.

"The Spanish Armada left from here," Fanny pointed out. "You know, the Spanish Armada. Mr Irving mentions it in both Astoria and Captain Bonneville."

"I do know the Armada," Margaret said carefully, "though I have never read Astoria."

"You have not?" Fanny seemed shocked. "It is a history of the finest quality." When Margaret only nodded, Fanny seemed impatient. "Mr Poe reviewed it."

"Mr Poe?" said Margaret.

"Mr Edgar Allan. Of 'Annabelle Lee.'"

"I know of him," was all Margaret could say.

"I like anything with poetry. I never read anything else."

"Besides Mr Irving," Margaret pointed out, since _Tales of the Alhambra_ was not verse.

"Unless it is something with gypsies. I will consent to read about gypsies."

Margaret did not know what to say. "I like novels about social problems. Have you read Charles Dickens?"

Mr Thornton was no longer writing. He was sitting back, his head tilted toward them as if to catch the drift of conversation, yet he did not seem inclined to join in. Margaret wondered at it, since in the company of her father, Mr Thornton had proven himself to be a great reader. Yet he did not turn towards them, and Margaret could only judge his mood by his profile. He seemed thoughtful, as though he contemplated something exceedingly pleasant. That contented reverie convinced her that his thoughts must be elsewhere, which discouraged Margaret from soliciting his opinions.

Mrs Thornton meanwhile continued sewing, likely as not having no interest in novels at all. Margaret could hardly imagine any book that might entice Mrs Thornton to read it. No doubt all she would have to say on Fordyce's Sermons was that it would have been better written in Milton.

"Here is Granada," Fanny said, having given Dickens all the contemplation she felt he deserved. She pointed to the map helpfully. "That is where the Alhambra is situated."

Margaret obediently followed Fanny's lead. "Near Cadiz."

"Yes," said Fanny. "Though Granada is far more exquisite."

"What route would one take to Cadiz?"

"Mr Irving travelled by land from Seville, to travel the immense plains of the Castiles and of La Mancha. The country, you know, is of an Arabian character."

"I did not know."

"I have read," Fanny told her. "Extensively."

While Margaret had to cover her amusement, she did not need to feign her eager interest. "Tell me, then, what that country is like."

Ever since Margaret had written to Frederick, she hoped for and feared his coming. Hearing of where he might be stirred her hopes and anxieties, yet in a way that was not as terrifying as considering his arrival. The turmoil was in its own way pleasant, because it reminded her of him.

"Would you rather hear about Mozambique?" Fanny asked. She began to turn the pages in the atlas, but Margaret stayed her hand.

"No. I prefer to hear about Cadiz."

"Mozambique has mosques." Fanny seemed to think mosques were all the rage.

"There are no mosques in the south of Spain?"

"You mean Andalusia. That is what the south of Spain is called." Fanny seemed to think Andalusia was all the rage, too.

"Andalusia, then."

"It is true that Mozambique is far more mysterious," Fanny admitted. "We do not know as much about it as the Four Kingdoms of Andalusia." She sounded as though she knew everything there was to know about the Four Kingdoms of Andalusia. She also sounded as though she was willing to tell Margaret everything there was to know about the Four Kingdoms of Andalusia, and delighted at the prospect.

"Then visions of Mozambique we shall have to forgo," Margaret said, smiling.

"You will find Andalusia dull in comparison." Fanny seemed very excited by the prospect of this dullness.

"I am sure you can tell me something interesting."

"I suppose." Fanny was attempting to feign reluctance, but by now she was so excited by the dullness of Andalusia, the pretence was perfectly transparent. Margaret concluded Fanny must have had no one with whom to share this fascination probably for all her life. Her mother and brother were so focused on what lay in Milton that it must have been hard for a girl growing up, imagining other lands. Margaret could not help but feel sympathy for her.

"The roads are very dangerous," Fanny said. "One never travels anywhere without a caravan. How I long to ride in a caravan!"

"On an Arabian stallion?"

Fanny gave her a strange look. "On a mule," she said, just exactly as if an Arabian stallion was an absurd notion if there was a mule to be had. "How I long for a mule! But if one is to ride a mule, one must contract a muleteer."

Fanny seemed to think that muleteers were quite the most mysterious and amazing beings anywhere. "Muleteers wear an alforjas, you know," Fanny went on, obviously having even less an idea than Margaret what an alforjas was, "and sing impromptu ballads of contrabandistas. Thieves are all romantic heroes, in Spain." Fanny seemed to ardently wish smugglers were all romantic heroes in England, too.

Margaret was highly diverted. "What about those from whom contra—"

"Contrabandistas."

"Yes, those from whom contrabandistas steal? Surely those people do not think contrabandistas are romantic heroes."

Fanny was startled by this idea. "Well—everybody is always on the look out for contrabandistas." The way she said this made Margaret wonder whether Fanny was secretly—hopefully—on the look out for contrabandistas, too. "And wherever you go, they say, '_Dios guarde a usted!_' That is 'God guard you!' Spanish, you know."

"I do not know," Margaret said, laughing. "Do you speak Spanish?"

"Oh yes." Fanny sounded as if this was the most natural thing in the world. "Well, I have learned enough, for when I travel to the Alhambra."

Margaret laughed again, and they talked the evening away with conversation of Spain.

Margaret found this topic of immense interest, and more often than not the hours after supper were spent by Fanny and Margaret speaking of Spain, with Mrs Thornton sewing, and Mr Thornton working away at his desk.

Although Margaret still found Fanny gauche and insensitive, she felt these hours spent together formed a friendly bond between them. Margaret felt pity for this girl who had been lonely all her life, and grateful for the opportunity to show that girl kindness. She thought the pictures Fanny liked to paint of Andalusia and Mozambique were inaccurate, albeit picturesque. Sometimes Fanny's obsession with smugglers and mosques and things made Margaret wonder whether there were people in Cadiz or Mozambique who idealized English blacksmiths and parish churches.

Margaret credited Fanny with the fascination of these thoughts. It still seemed selfish to be preoccupied by music and patterns and far away places, when people should be concerned with strikes and hunger and conditions in the mills. Yet there was something invigorating in Fanny's fantasies, and her enthusiasm for them. Fanny was unable to feign the yawning disinterest of London society; her interests were blunt and impassioned.

The attitudes of her mother and brother must seem oppressive to Fanny. They were quiet, serious people, concerned with weighty matters. At the same time, Margaret realized her own attitude was far closer to Mr Thornton's and his mother's than to Fanny's. She had been inclined to initially be dismissive of Fanny. But Frederick had always been of a lively disposition, as had Edith, and her father could gently tease, even if Mother for the most part did not like him to do so. And so Margaret had learned to laugh, whereas she did not think that Mr Thornton or Mrs Thornton had.

To her, Mr Thornton was always most courteous, and though sometimes Margaret thought he was less so to his sister, sometimes she would catch him looking at Fanny. This was not quite the same look Margaret caught Mr Thornton giving her, but there was a similar wistfulness in it, as though he thought Fanny could disappear somehow before his eyes.

Many evenings after supper, Margaret caught Mr Thornton staring absently in the distance instead of at the accounts on his desk. This was when Fanny would wax poetic about smugglers and Mr Irving. That first night, Margaret had merely assumed Mr Thornton was thinking about something entirely removed from the drawing room, some pleasant memory that made his mouth turn so softly up at the corners. But now, Margaret was sure that he was listening to their conversations, mostly filled with Fanny's idle chatter.

At times, Margaret thought Mr Thornton might join them. He half turned toward them, as if to listen, or he would make some movement as if to examine sheet music or patterns Fanny would brandish about. But Fanny never recognized these stillborn gestures for what Margaret thought they were. When Fanny noticed them at all, she reacted defensively, turning up her nose and calling him an old bore.

And yet, at all the opposite times, Margaret saw Fanny gaze at the austere line of her brother's back, as if she wished that he would turn from his figures and join them in their lighter pursuits. Margaret saw her brandish those self-same music notes or patterns right where he would be at efforts to ignore them, and saw her face fall when he did not seem to evince interest in them. If he could only be more sensitive to her, Margaret thought, Fanny would be more sympathetic to him.

This would perhaps require pretending Fanny was less silly than she really was. Though it seemed simple enough, Margaret could understand Mr Thornton's position. She abhorred pretending anything she did not feel. She did not approve of treating the ridiculous as sublime—and yet, not to compromise in this instance seemed unkind.

When Margaret thought of Mr Thornton, she often marvelled at the differences between his behaviour here and at Crampton. At Crampton, he had been eager in his address toward her, but also prickly and defensive. Here at Marlborough Mills, he seemed far more at ease. He let the evening discussions be dominated by Fanny, and never seemed to feel the need to speak in order to exert his authority over the household.

As for his treatment of her, he listened when she spoke, and was kind if she went to him with household needs or questions. Each morning, he asked whether she had slept well, and always asked in the evening, too, how her day had been. Though Margaret always answered truthfully, she did not tell him when she was annoyed with his sister, or that she felt certain his mother had yet to think Margaret had done a single thing right since living in this house.

She did not tell him that the reason she sometimes slept poorly at night was that she was still uncomfortable here. She worried for her mother; she ached for the gentleness of her father and the comfort of familiar surroundings; she even missed steadfast Dixon. She did not tell him she had yet to understand her place in this house; she could not help feeling she had intruded upon the running of this household and this family.

He had said he loved her when he had first proposed; sometimes when he looked at her, she felt certain it must still be true. He had never repeated this sentiment to her, however, and the polite friendliness with which he treated her was not necessarily an indication of deeper regard. A noble man, ardently in love, would have treated her in this way, in order to create as little intimidation or sense of obligation for her as possible. An polite man, who remained indifferent, would have treated her this way as well.

She had felt closer to Mr Thornton the night they had discussed Nicholas Higgins, but since then she had felt reluctant to approach him. She could not very well speak to him of Spain. She might have liked to talk more about the masters and the workers, 'social politics,' but she also did not want to be responsible for any arguments. She had promised they could try to be friends.

As it was, for the first week or so of marriage, they did not engage in very many complex discussions, as they once had. Margaret could not tell if this disappointed her; perhaps she had expected all her days with Mr Thornton to be packed with heated discourse. Instead, she found that he was quiet, and often seemed thoughtful.

At times, Margaret wished they might discuss the status of their marriage. Since they had not consummated it, she wondered if they were lying to the world. This might be a different kind of living in sin. She knew that the act was meant to be performed by people who were in love, while she also knew that those who did not love each other still performed it.

She wondered whether she herself was vulgar, that she should desire to perform this duty as his wife, in lieu of her other duty of loving him. Her conscience would feel cleaner, she thought, her obligation to him closer met, if only she might behave fully as his wife.

Yet, to broach the subject may make it seem as though she were overly interested; to speak of her willingness may make her seem eager. Her curiosity made her ashamed. Meanwhile, Mr Thornton appeared not care for the subject. He had even seemed repulsed by some of their discussion that first night of their marriage.

That she should continue to dwell on it while he apparently paid it no mind shamed her further still, particularly as this was a subject on which it was appropriate for men to reflect, while women must merely do what was asked of them. Margaret was highly sensible of the fact that Mr Thornton was attempting to be generous by relieving her of this burden, but she rather wished that she might undertake that burden. She thought that she would feel stronger and more honest, having done it.

Because such openness was not permitted, Margaret attempted to return his kindness. She asked after his days and work, and she listened to anything he chose to tell her with attention. She included him in the evening conversations when she felt that he was interested—this was not often—and always bid him good night with a firm grasp of her hand.

They parted company in the evenings in the hallway before their rooms. After this, they did not see each other again until morning. They never seemed to touch any other time except by accident.

Mr Thornton had said that she might come to his room in the evenings, but something prevented her from taking him up on this offer. Somehow it felt too intimate. If he was not interested in other intimacies, she recoiled at being the one to instigate these. She had always been forthright, but she had never been forward.

And yet she was interested in knowing him better. If only for the sake of practicality, she thought, it was better not to live with a stranger. There were other reasons she thought of him, though, and wondered what he was really thinking.

Sometimes she saw their old, heated arguments in a new light. At times, she missed them, and other times, she appreciated the quiet stability she was learning to see in him, the unspoken strength. She liked the way that he commanded business at the mill, but gave her and his mother leeway to run the household. She liked that he was willing to be her friend.

Margaret's relationship with Mrs Thornton was also courteous. But while Margaret was beginning to feel comfortable around Mr Thornton, she did not feel the same about his mother. Between themselves they were cordial enough, but Margaret felt that those living in the same household could stand to be more than cordial.

Mrs Thornton was cold, proud, and implacable. She never spoke a negative word to Margaret, and yet Margaret could feel emanating from her an air not quite of disapproval, but of judgement. From every move Margaret made toward friendship with her, Mrs Thornton seemed to distance herself, in order to stand back and judge whether such a move was worthy of one married to her son.

To make things worse, Margaret had no idea whether her own pride similarly rebuffed Mrs Thornton. Margaret felt that she was trying her very best, but she had never had a way of knowing what may cause a Milton person offence. She and Mrs Thornton remained on polite terms, but no more.

This friction, and the day to day worries of learning the structure of a new household, acted to oppress Margaret's spirits. She tried to see her new life in a positive light. Fanny was interesting, and Margaret thought that she could help her. Mr Thornton was trying to make things comfortable for her, and his attention to her welfare was more than could be said of some husbands Margaret had observed. She was not treated poorly; she thought that eventually they might come to know each other better and be on friendly terms.

And yet, sometimes she remembered that it had not been her choice to be here in the first place. She thought of the life she had dreamed about for herself and felt an aching regret. She thought of her mother, ailing without her, and how her father must be worried for both women he held dearest. She felt selfish, but she also thought of doing what she liked and going where she pleased. There had been less responsibility in her life at Crampton.

Most of these cares could be put aside for an hour or two during the time Margaret went to visit her mother and father. This she did in the afternoon, well after luncheon but before supper.

Shortly after she and Fanny first began to speak of Spain, Margaret arrived at Crampton to find her mother perusing a letter from Aunt Shaw. A similar letter had been copied out and sent to Marlborough Mills, but Aunt Shaw wanted Maria to persuade Margaret as well. The letter was an exhortation for Margaret to visit them at Harley Street to tour the Great Exhibition. Mr Thornton and his sister were included in the invitation. Aunt Shaw and Edith were eager—or felt obliged—to meet Margaret's new family.

Margaret said that she could not possibly go, but Mrs Hale was surprisingly insistent. She felt much better, and seemed almost lively again. She sat up in bed, and mentioned the bears and elephants and exotic people and inventions from all over the Empire that she herself wished she could see. "If you went," she said to Margaret, "you could tell me all about it, and maybe bring me something back, and that would give me something to look forward to."

Margaret smiled at her mother's determination. "I will think about it."

Mrs Hale's mouth went tight. "You have written to Frederick, have you not?" she said, in a tremulous tone that nevertheless sounded like an accusation.

Something in Margaret went still. Until she had been asked to write to him, Margaret had not heard her mother speak that name in so long. To hear her speak it now still made her think that something awful had happened.

"Now I think about it, I am afraid of him coming," Mrs Hale went on, "in case he should be taken after all of these years that he has kept away and lived safely."

Margaret was afraid, too. It was not only the idea of Frederick being taken that disturbed her. It was the thought of this dark thing being drawn into the open. Frederick himself was not dark; he had been the brightest thing in her life, but for Helstone. However, the mutiny and subsequent call for his arrest were carefully guarded secrets, kept closely by her family.

Margaret prided herself on speaking the truth, but of this they never spoke. This secret had become a part of her, a part of all her family. In some ways she thought it was all that held her family together, in the wake of losing both son and brother. Frederick's presence in Milton would not only risk himself, but the destruction of what they sacrificed in order to conceal him.

But Margaret could not face these fears and fight them. She must push them all down and leave them, so that she might seem strong just now for her mother. Reassuring Mrs Hale, Margaret enlisted Dixon's help. Dixon agreed that she would keep the door like a dragon should Frederick be able to visit them, and Mrs Hale was temporarily mollified.

"Then you will go to the Exhibition," Mrs Hale continued, as if this was what they had been settling all along.

"Mama," Margaret said.

"I want to see my poor daughter happy," Mrs Hale said. "I want to think of her in London, where it is warmer, and there are—there are delightful things to see. I want her to be among friends, and not—not where she never wished to be."

"It is not so very bad," Margaret said lowly. Even if she had wanted to leave her mother, Margaret did not know whether she could really accept Edith's invitation. Mr Thornton seemed consumed by business. If he had to stay behind, she did not know if he would want her to travel without him so soon after their marriage. It might not look proper, she thought, but she did not say this to her mother.

Mrs Hale was proposing the journey partly because of Mr Thornton, Margaret had no doubt. She was so sure that Margaret was unhappy at Marlborough Mills, and instead wanted to think of Margaret happy in Harley Street with Aunt Shaw and Edith. She thought she was being helpful by encouraging this adventure, as if Margaret did not have the rest of her life to live with Mr Thornton at Marlborough Mills. But Mrs Hale did not want to think of that; she wanted her daughter to be happy, without having to consider all the circumstances of her unhappiness.

"Margaret." Mrs Hale held out her hands, and Margaret took them. Mrs Hale's grip had always been weak, her hands soft, but now they felt almost limp. Margaret's heart ached. "Promise me you go. If Frederick is to come, you must go."

Margaret did not see how the two were connected, but she knew that in her mother's mind, they were. There were too many things Mrs Hale could not control, too many situations on which her mind did not wish to dwell. Mrs Hale seemed to think that if she could force her daughter to be happy, she could suppress all thoughts of anything else.

Feeling oppressed in this gentle, stifling way, Margaret could do nothing but recalculate her previous considerations. It might be possible. Even if Mr Thornton could not go, she would probably be able to prevail upon him to let her go without him. She could bring Fanny. Miss Thornton would at last see London—the thought of this, it surprised Margaret to learn, was almost as pleasant to her as the thought of getting to see Edith and the much talked of Sholto.

Mr Thornton must consent. She would bring up the case at supper. If he denied his permission . . . she did not think he would. He had been so kind to her, had listened to everything she said with such attention. So far he had tried to give her anything she wanted.

If for some reason he denied her, she could talk to him again, alone. He had said she might go to him at any hour, or that she might wait up for him in his sitting room if he were gone. If she were able to make clear to him the importance of such a trip to Mrs Hale, Edith, and Fanny, he would let her go. She could be open and frank with him, and explain the reasons, as she could not to some other people. He would listen in that quiet, serious way of his.

Margaret told her mother that she would go, and Mrs Hale was pleased. The whole way home, Margaret thought of the trip to London, of Fanny's delight, and of how she would put the question to Mr Thornton. It relieved her to think of him in this way—as someone to whom she might go. They might speak to each other, and discuss, and ask things of the other. He would not manipulate her or suppress her in any way. They might be open with one another.

He had said that she might knock.

* * *

As events played out, Margaret did not need to prevail upon Mr Thornton to allow her and Fanny to go to the Great Exhibition.

Margaret came home to find the copy of the letter Aunt Shaw had promised, and she broached the topic of the invitation at supper. Mr Thornton replied he had had a similar invitation from Mr Latimer, by extension of Mr Latimer's friend, Colonel Carter, also an acquaintance of Mr Thornton's.

"Colonel Carter has a house in London," Mr Thornton explained. "Mr Latimer is bringing Miss Latimer, and invites you and me and Fanny to stay for the duration."

"In London?" Fanny said.

"I understand," Margaret said. Mr Thornton would prefer to stay with his friends rather than with strangers. Of course, as his wife, she must stay by his side. "Will you accept?"

"I have begun arrangements," Mr Thornton said.

"To London?" Fanny said.

"I thought that your business might keep you here," Margaret said.

"It is business which takes me away," he explained. "I go to raise capital for the mill, and perhaps also to seek new clients. Besides, it will be important to learn from the engineers who will be there, and see what other mill owners are doing."

"In London?" Fanny said. She seemed horribly wounded that her brother could go to London to look at machines, and terrified that she might be forced to look at machines, too.

"Mr Latimer has invited you, too," Mr Thornton said at last to his sister.

"To London!"

"I am sure you will be very happy there, dearest," Mrs Thornton said. Her voice was kind, while her tone toward her son was so often merely practical. Yet Margaret sensed something perfunctory in Mrs Thornton's comment toward Fanny, and the underlying wealth of true admiration as she turned to Mr Thornton and said, "Others are more likely to learn from you, John."

"If that be so, it is not my purpose in going," Mr Thornton told her. "Margaret, I understand if your mother cannot spare you."

"I think she can ill afford to," Margaret began. Mr Thornton gave a quick nod. "Yet she wishes to."

Mr Thornton went still.

"I would stay in Milton, could I do any good," Margaret went on. "But I know her too well. She will fret so, thinking I should be in London instead of tending to her, that it will only make her condition worsen. Letters about Edith and Aunt Shaw, and my tales of the Exhibition on my return will at least serve to entertain her."

"Then you will go." Mr Thornton was still unmoving.

"Yes."

"And you will stay at the Carters'?"

Margaret was not aware that had been an option. She did not know if he was asking whether she would stay in London separately from him, or whether he was asking whether he should accept Aunt Shaw's invitation instead of Mr Latimer's. But that would have been unfair. She at least knew the Latimers in passing, even if she did not know this Colonel Carter, and he had never met Aunt Shaw or Edith.

She thought of Mr Thornton in Harley Street. Margaret had visions of Edith and Aunt Shaw, unsure of how to react to this rough manufacturer, and Mr Thornton reacting with hurt pride and affronted dignity. The differences in his own background would be more evident than ever on Harley Street, in polite, gentrified society. Even the thought of Mr Thornton, so blunt and straightforward and a little unpolished, in those dainty, anaemic, and refined surroundings, made Margaret feel embarrassed both for Aunt Shaw and for him.

"I will stay where you are," Margaret said.

Mr Thornton looked so gratified that for a moment Margaret was embarrassed anyway.

"When are we to leave?" Fanny asked.

"The beginning of next week," Mr Thornton said.

"Impossible," said Fanny. "That is not nearly enough time for a new gown."

"And yet," Mr Thornton's mouth twitched; Margaret could not tell if it was in annoyance or amusement, "next week it still is."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Mrs Thornton was pleased the Latimers were coming with them to London, seeming to think Ann Latimer a pleasant and fashionable companion for her daughter. Mrs Thornton did not seem to think similarly of Margaret's presence, but Margaret chose not to take offence, and bid her mother-in-law good bye with all the grace she could summon.

The train ride was a long one, and Margaret had not thought until it began about how she would now be subjected to several hours of forced company with her husband. She told herself that she did not mind. If they were not friends, they were slowly growing toward it. She appreciated his quiet courtesy. She even looked forward to the mornings, finding comfort in his strong, stable presence, in the way he sounded like he needed and wanted an honest answer when he asked how she had slept.

A train ride would really be no different from all those now serene-seeming evenings, when Fanny's eyes grew bright and her imagination vivid, and Margaret humoured her in the firelight while brother and mother easily went about their evening tasks. It only began to seem different when Margaret considered the closeness of their compartment combined with Fanny's restlessness. Mr Thornton did not have his ledgers to work on here.

This was a chance to draw him out, to begin to know him better. She did want to better know the man she had married, and yet at the same time, she felt reluctance. They had established a kind of peace; she did not want to break it.

This possibility presented itself to Margaret most keenly when Fanny, shortly after the train had begun its journey, announced her intention to share a compartment with the Latimers. One compartment was not large enough to seat five, and so the Latimers were across the small corridor. Fanny, after some not small amount of trouble fitting her hoops through, pushed through the narrow door and shut it with a click behind her.

Margaret and Mr Thornton were seated across from each other. She felt sure that his eyes were upon her, even though she was looking out the window and so could not confirm it. The cool English countryside slipped past.

"Are you well?" he asked her after a time.

"I am perfectly well, thank you."

"I meant, regarding your friend, Miss Higgins," Mr Thornton said. "Some time has passed. I have observed you look less pensive. You are not suffering?"

Margaret looked at him in surprise, which changed to gratitude when she saw his concern. "Thank you." She thought for a moment. "I think it a shame that someone of such kindness and humour, who seemed so wise at such a young age, should have to leave us all so soon. But I am glad she is in a better place now. She deserved to be." Margaret looked back out the window.

"They really are your friends," Mr Thornton said. He easily interpreted the affronted look she gave him. "You think me callous."

Margaret opened her mouth, then closed it. She wondered whether it was appropriate to agree with your husband when he said that you condemned him. "I know what you are asking," she said, after some thought. "In the South, we would bring baskets to the poor, the invalids and the farmers who had too many children to feed. I have always thought of charity as a kindness, not a way to express superiority. But in the South, things were very clear. We were fortunate, and there were those who were less so."

Margaret thought of the families she had known in the Forest. "I knew interesting people," she said. "Young people, old people, farmers, grandmothers who used herbs for remedies. They were gracious, and I liked them, but I knew them as a benefactor. I had a love of the race. When they went away, certainly I felt sadness. I did not feel as though a personal quality had been stripped from me."

"It is different in the North?"

"Yes. When we came here, we were alone. We did not know anyone, and no one cared for us. Even the people with whom we eventually became acquainted seemed foreign. Everything was so different, I did not even know to whom I might take a basket, and less so that baskets might not be welcomed by those in need."

The corner of Mr Thornton's mouth twitched. "I cannot imagine it would go over well, with some Milton men."

"It did not."

Mr Thornton smiled. "But you persevered. During the strike—"

"They came to know me," Margaret said, not wanting to argue over the feeding of children again, as they had at the Thornton's dinner. "There are some who will accept charity, if they understand the intentions behind it. Nicholas and Bessy taught me that, though they would never accept it themselves."

"They do not want to be condescended to."

Margaret put her head back. "And so I do not condescend to them."

"You call on them."

"I had to wait for an invitation."

"There are not many women in your position in Milton who wait upon invitations from ha—workers. I never did understand it."

They had discussed this before. "Bessy and Nicholas were the ones who first invited me, and the first to let me know I needed to be invited," Margaret said. "They helped me all the time with understanding Milton ways. Even when I was most lonely, Bessy assured me that Milton would get used to me."

Mr Thornton's brows rose. "How long did she suppose it would take?"

"One or two years."

Mr Thornton laughed.

Margaret looked out the window. The train rushed along, their car rattling. "She was a friend when I had no one else to talk to."

She had told Mr Thornton they might try to be friends as well. During the strike he had condemned the workers so easily, and disapproved of her charity to them. Yet even though he thought less of the Higgins's than perhaps he should, he also seemed interested in her dealings with them. He seemed to truly care about her feelings regarding Bessy.

He had also seemed interested in her father's lessons, which seemed a hypocrisy in light of what she saw as close-mindedness. Mr Thornton was a contradiction: set in Milton ways, defensive of them, and yet strangely eager to learn about the rest of the world and what other people thought. She remembered what he had said about the Great Exhibition, his stated interest in seeing the new inventions and great thinkers there.

"What do you think we will see at the Exhibition?" Margaret said. The silence in the car felt too heavy, and she was all too aware of his proximity.

Mr Thornton spoke of seeking investors at the Great Exhibition, but rather than speaking of sums of money they might offer, he spoke of new technology and efficiency. He also spoke of examining the newest inventions that might benefit his mill. He seemed eager to see these inventions, not for the money they may bring in, but for the sheer joy in human ingenuity, and pride in progress and improved efficiency.

"What sort of inventions?" Margaret said, to be polite.

"Pressure gauges, and engines. The main thing is that they are always improving the looms."

Margaret frowned. "I do not know much about technology, but I have heard it said that the power loom is 'the perfect machine'. It certainly seems to produce a great amount. The work that goes on automatically at Marlborough Mills is indisputably impressive. How does one improve on perfection?"

Mr Thornton gave her one of his half smiles. "By working at it. The kinds of looms we use at Marlborough Mills may be automatic, but they are only semi-autonomous. This is of course why workers are needed. The loom needs to be stopped to recharge empty shuttles. If there is a problem—a thread breaking—the loom will also stop. Then the thread needs to be retied or pieced. The needles break as well, and need to be replaced."

Margaret listened in surprise. No one had ever described to her the workings of machinery before. She would have supposed that she was not interested; it was the business of men, yet it occurred to her as he spoke that this was vital. The lives of everyone she knew in Milton, with the possible exception of her own family, were dependent on this technology.

In reply to some small question she asked, Mr Thornton digressed for several minutes regarding a needle. It was a needle with a latch connecting it to the shaft, instead of held there by welding. He said that this would cause the needle to have more flexibility, which would in turn cause it to break less. It seemed like such a small thing, a needle, but he was able to determine how much time this would save them, and therefore how much more the mill might produce.

Margaret also observed that it might be safer for the workers, since it seemed that a needle, when it broke, could easily fly off a machine. Mr Thornton agreed, and launched into discourse regarding various inventions to improve mill safety, such as guards for the looms, and an improved wheel to keep the dust and fluff out of workers' lungs. He mentioned the telegraph fire alarm that someone had proposed, but he thought it was not worked out yet.

Unable to hide her interest, Margaret made inquiries, which encouraged Mr Thornton to continue to speak of inventions, the Great Exhibition, his hopes for Marlborough Mills, his interest in technology. He got to talking about engines, and all that they were doing with steam. At one point he spoke of Mr Joule and a gentleman named Lord Kelvin, in an analysis of thermodynamics that was well beyond Margaret's understanding. Yet he did not speak to her as if she was stupid, and when she made sounds of incomprehension, he was eager to simplify his terms.

Listening to him, Margaret realized she could learn much more than how many foot-pounds of 'work' it might take to increase the temperature of water. Gentlemen of London pooh-poohed scientific knowledge; understanding of Latin and Plato were all that mattered. At one time she had felt there was wisdom in this. Understanding ideas was more powerful than understanding gross mechanics. Bodies may be constrained by the real world, but the soul was part of the spiritual. Abstraction was key.

And yet in all these theories of thermodynamics, there could be a key to ideas. By understanding the world around them, man might better learn of the world outside of them as well. Besides, the spirit was grounded, at least for a time, in the body. Both were inventions of a higher power; seeking understanding was only another way to worship that power.

Speaking of thermodynamics, of Watts and pressure, Mr Thornton sounded almost lofty.

Not only was the subject not base, it was complex as well. There were many men of her acquaintance in London who claimed an understanding of the classics, who Margaret knew would never comprehend these theories of work and pressure and internal force. She wondered who had determined that one form of knowledge be higher than another.

She had never much liked Plato. He seemed to her short-sighted.

Yet in the next moment, Mr Thornton was speaking not of thermodynamics and theories of energy, but again of the intricacies of mechanics, some belt or reed he had heard of that would increase the production speed of the looms he'd described. Margaret noticed then that for all her decision that discourse of this sort was not base, Mr Thornton was by no means speaking abstractly. It seemed obvious from his discourse that he spoke from personal experience. He not only managed the workers; he had managed these machines.

Margaret did not think other masters had such experience—or, if they did, would admit to such. Mr Thornton was the only man she knew who made pretensions to gentlemanliness, but in the same breath was not afraid of admitting he had worked in a draper's shop. She knew Mr Thornton had never worked as Nicholas did, or Bessy, but she could not imagine that he was afraid of trying his hand at it. He had a history far inferior to that of most of the other manufacturers.

Just as Margaret did not know anyone else who would have spoken so freely to her of such things, she also did not know anyone who would have spoken as eagerly. The dark she so often observed in him lifted a little as he spoke of the world, technology and inventions, engineers and science and America, where they were always inventing new things.

Apathy was the height of distinction in London. One had interests "here and there", one tried "this and that", one dabbled in art or in business or in knowledge. If one dedicated one's self to a cause, one became a bore, a zealot who was not refined enough to appreciate the diversity of interest in the world, and the shallowness of their scope. In London, speaking in this way, Mr Thornton would seem coarse and boorish, self-obsessed and over-heated.

Margaret welcomed it. Not only did she find the subjects of his discourse interesting, she was gratified to see someone who did not define boredom as a praise-worthy characteristic. She was glad to know someone who did not disguise his passions.

There was a softness and mobility to his mouth that she had not seen before. There was colour in his face. His voice was deep, resonant, with a power to it that was rough, yet sensible and true. Still, under that voice, woven through the Darkshire accent that gave his words a strange lilt to her ears, there was a depth of feeling. An excitement, a fascination, a joy, and he was sharing it with her. It was for her alone, wrapped up between them in this car where only they two sat.

Thinking these things, she felt suddenly very close to him. Even though he seemed to be bringing the entire world between them, speaking of its wonders and its workings, she felt suddenly as though they spoke of intimate things.

The feeling only grew as he continued talking, until she felt as though she was stripped down out of all trappings so that all that was left was the person she was, and he was similarly stripped. They sat before each other now in this train car as equals, the equals she had spoken of when she spoke of Bessy also.

He moved his hand in some gesture, and she felt as though he were touching her in that moment, even though he was only attempting to describe a boiler system to keep cotton dry. His fingers were long, the palms broad and square.

He could draw her to him with those hands, and yet he never had.

She was his wife, she suddenly realized. She wondered why he had not drawn her to him. He could hold her against him with those hands, pull her to him, his rough body and square chest; he could hold her and let his voice wrap around her. They could be together, equals, as men and women were supposed to be, as man and wife.

But Margaret did not know how it was supposed to be. She felt confused and flustered; she did not know why she was thinking these things when he spoke only of cotton. He was obviously not thinking these things of her. He did not want to hold her the way she had so suddenly imagined, or else he would have done it. He had a right to it; she was his wife. He had never touched her in that way.

And yet he was not without passion. She could see it in him; it was part of what stirred her heart so. His eyes were bright as fire.

"I am sorry," Mr Thornton said suddenly. "You are bored. I should have noticed."

The tone of his voice was changed completely.

"I am not bored." Margaret spoke in a somewhat breathless voice. Her cheeks felt flushed. She realized that she had indeed become distracted; she had stopped commenting and asking questions, content to merely listen and absorb.

Mr Thornton looked askance at her. "You have a particular interest in keeping cotton dry?"

"Yes." Margaret lifted her chin.

"You do not need to feign an interest for my sake."

"I am not feigning an interest!" The accusation demeaned both her and the way he had been speaking to her. He may have merely forgotten that she was not one of his business colleagues, rather than speaking that way because he truly did respect her intelligence and ability to grasp issues that mainly concerned men.

"I am sorry," he said again. "I did not mean to suggest deceit on your part, but rather too solicitous charity."

She looked away, feeling in some small part deceptive after all. It was true that she had lost the thread of his conversation, becoming preoccupied by his voice rather than his words. She did not know what had precipitated it, and shame coursed through her. He had not become distracted that way; his heat had been all for the ideas of which he spoke.

Even with her head down, she knew that he watched her. She knew that he eyed her keenly; she could feel that burning gaze.

"It is too warm," Mr Thornton said suddenly. "Forgive me; I was distracted. I will open the window."

"I am not too hot," she said in strained protest, because he was standing up.

His legs brushed her skirt. "You are flushed," he said, and opened the latch on the window.

"I only need a glass of water." She stood too hurriedly and stumbled.

"Margaret," he said, grasping her arm.

"I am not faint." She stepped away.

He still held her arm. "I will get the water for you."

"Thank you," she said, as stately as she could. She allowed him to continue to hold her arm as she turned and seated herself again.

He lingered as he bent over her, so that she had to turn her face away from his. She felt his hand travel gently up her arm, to her shoulder, her collar bone. She thought that he forgot that he had never touched her this way. His hand touched the side of her neck, under her ear. It was damp with her sweat. "You are overheated," he told her, because now he had evidence.

"I would like some water," Margaret repeated almost sharply, unhappy and frustrated to be made to feel this way. Resenting the very coolness of his fingers, she made the mistake of turning her head back to him in some rebuke. His face was so close, the area of his mouth lined with soft concern. His eyes looked darker than usual.

She could track that progress of his gaze. She knew when he was no longer staring into her own eyes, but at her mouth. "Mr Thornton," she said, meaning remonstrance. She did not sound remonstrating at all. She thought she sounded pleading. She did not know for what she pled.

He tore his eyes away. "Yes," he said, and straightened. "Do not move. I will bring it to you."

Then he was gone, leaving her to herself to wonder what had happened.

She did not think of it. Instead, she let the cool air from the window rush over her. The rocky terrain of northern England was giving way to rolling farmland. She should be happy, she thought, to be leaving Darkshire. Here was the land with which she was familiar, bright in comparison, and green. There was grace in it, and peace.

The quiet dullness of it made her restless.

She thought that if Mr Thornton had been a gentleman, he would not go on speaking of cotton as if she were a man. She also thought that if Mr Thornton were a gentleman, she would not feel this way. Her body did not feel as though it was under her control, and its responses were uncomfortable. She was too hot, and constricted, and she just wanted to feel calm and at peace again. She felt ashamed for reasons she could not define.

If only he had not been so calm and gentle to her! She would rather he had been irked, or frustrated, or somehow as perturbed as she was. She did not know what effect this would have had, only that she would have felt better about all of it.

The narrow door swung open, and Mr Thornton came back into the compartment. Handing her the glass, he sat beside her. Margaret drank the water quickly.

"Do you feel any better?"

"Yes. It is nothing. I am only hot."

Not so long after this, the train stopped for lunch, which made Margaret realize that she and Mr Thornton had been hours talking, she mostly listening. The Latimers and Thorntons ate in the small tearoom at the station, Fanny overflowing with plans concerning the art and sculpture she claimed she and Ann would see at the Great Exhibition. Margaret got the distinct impression that it was Fanny who had made these plans, for Ann did not contribute much to the conversation.

Meanwhile, Mr Latimer and Mr Thornton began to talk business. It seemed a much more financially oriented version of the discussion she and Mr Thornton had been having in the car, less filled with the technology and scientific knowledge that had seemed to excite Mr Thornton. Margaret still thought that it was interesting. She tried to listen, but it was harder to disappear now than it had been at the Thornton's dinner, where she had sat silently and watched. Instead, Fanny required responses.

Soon, Margaret was enveloped in a debate about mosaics, which interested her after all because everyone knew the finest mosaics were made in Spain.

When they got back on the train, Fanny joined them in their compartment again. Instead of mosaics or Spain—or Mozambique, or even London, which might have been expected, since they were finally on their way—Fanny spoke of Ann: Ann this and Ann that, "I told Ann" this and "Ann thinks" that. Fanny seemed impressed by Ann, whom she also seemed to think quite a gentlewoman.

Margaret was not surprised to hear this. She understood that Milton's manufacturers considered themselves more than mere tradesmen. Ann had gone to school, and this had made her refined, which was mainly what impressed Fanny. It was interesting to hear Fanny speak of Ann as though she were a knight's daughter, or the sister of a baronet.

Thinking these things, Margaret did not know how to reply to much of Fanny's conversation. Even had Ann been a baroness, Margaret was not given to praising people for their fortunes, their dress, or even habit of speaking finely, and these seemed to be the main sources of Fanny's adulation. Margaret preferred to know a person before feeling they should be admired, however keenly she was aware of the differences between herself and the Latimers.

After a while, Fanny grew bored, and when she was bored, she grew twitchy. During the time that Fanny had been confiding to Margaret, Mr Thornton had taken out a book and quietly begun to read. Fanny had paid him no heed, but now she demanded to know what Mr Thornton was reading.

"It is a book belonging to Mr Hale," Mr Thornton told her, and turned a page.

"Oh," said Fanny, looking disgusted until suddenly she remembered that Margaret was in the compartment. Perhaps Fanny realized that disparaging the father's books in front of the daughter was not the best of ideas. "Well, what is it?"

"Plato's Republic," he said, which caused Margaret to laugh.

"That old boring Greek," Fanny said. "I never found him funny."

"I never did either," Mr Thornton said, turning to Margaret with an inquiring look.

"I do not think _The Republic_ a comedy," Margaret assured them. "I was only thinking of Plato earlier, and that I think him an old boring Greek as well."

"They all are," Fanny said in a comforting way.

"Do you?" Mr Thornton seemed surprised.

Margaret smiled, feeling a sudden inclination toward mischief. Now that they had stopped and got some air, and Fanny was here, she felt much more herself. She told Mr Thornton that she found Plato short-sighted. They debated this some little while, their discussion lively and engaging. Margaret found that now they were arguing a topic not close to either of their hearts, they could do so without misunderstandings.

She also found that she enjoyed teasing Mr Thornton, as she knew more Greek than he did, and she was lighter on her rhetorical feet, as it were. Mr Thornton's rebuttals were slower and more ponderous, and yet they made sound logical sense, and showed a keen understanding of the material.

He seemed shocked by what he perceived as her lack of reverence for the classics. This was interesting, since London gentlemen assured themselves all the time that these manufacturers in the North could have no truly fine minds, as they were incapable of appreciating unassailable geniuses such as Homer and Aristotle, or Ovid and Virgil.

Mr Thornton, however, seemed very attached to his beliefs of Plato's utter perfection. Margaret did not know if this was due to Mr Thornton's desire to be enlightened, as exemplified by his lessons from her father, or a true agreement with Plato's ideals. She did not think Mr Thornton longed for the former in order to impress London gentlemen; she thought he could care less what they thought of him. And yet she thought he somehow wanted to be like them, in regards to depth of knowledge and fields of interest. He did not admire their apathetic aspirations, or their indolent days of ease. He did admire their intellects.

But Margaret thought the latter was also true, that he did agree with Plato somewhat. Upon reflection, this was to be expected. She not only thought Plato short-sighted, she thought him a tyrant. Of course, he did not mean to be. He was all good intention. She said as much to Mr Thornton, who frowned.

"Plato's ideal government is one of benevolence," he told her. "Admittedly, it is entirely unrealistic—"

"Will you really sit and speak all the day away of governments?" Fanny said.

Mr Thornton turned to her. "Is it Greek to you?"

Margaret could not help her laughter, though there was a trickle of guilt at the thought it might be at Fanny's expense. "There is an author I think we can all enjoy," she said, trying to smooth things over.

"I do not," Fanny said stoutly. "I do not enjoy anyone who is Greek."

"I think the author to whom Margaret referred was most English, by all accounts." Mr Thornton smiled.

"I am going back to the Latimers' compartment," Fanny said. "Ann will be glad to see me, at least. I have had enough of people who are dead."

"You might try Sappho," Margaret said, trying to be helpful. "We might read it together."

Fanny made a face, wiggled through the narrow door with her hoops, and left Margaret and Mr Thornton once more alone.

For all that Margaret thought she felt better, once Fanny was gone she began to feel restless again. Mr Thornton was not saying anything, but she did not understand why. It was not as though they needed Fanny to make conversation, and yet she was reluctant to broach any of the topics they had been discussing.

Disquieted, Margaret looked out the window. Mr Thornton had closed it up, because Fanny had complained about the rushing air disarranging her curls. That was unfortunate, as now it began to feel hot again. Margaret wished her fan were not in her trunk. It would have given her something with which to occupy her hands.

"Fanny has been enjoying your company," Mr Thornton said suddenly.

Margaret turned to look at him, glad for the break in the silence. "As I have been enjoying hers." She smiled. "She is teaching me Spanish, as I am sure you have overheard in our evening conversations."

With a slight smile, Mr Thornton said, "I do not think Fanny knows Spanish."

Margaret laughed. "Perhaps not. But she is teaching me salutations, and how to ask questions. I do not think she knows how to apologize, but otherwise, she knows what one would need to travel there."

"Because you have often considered travelling to Spain." He said this in jest, as if possessed of the knowledge that it was not true.

Flustered, Margaret looked down at her hands.

There was no way he could divine the reason for her upset, as he revealed with his next comments. "You cannot be interested in Spain for its own sake," he went on. "You have been humouring her, for which I am grateful. She has had no one to speak to of those childhood fantasies for years. Thank you."

He was right. She was not interested in Spain for its own sake—just not for the reasons he supposed. The guilt of her own deception made her words tart. "I am interested in your sister for her own sake, not to garner your approval."

He tilted his head, expression disbelieving. "I am sorry."

Margaret flushed, knowing that she was in the wrong, and ashamed of it.

Mr Thornton said, "I did not mean to imply that your feelings for my sister were manufactured. I had no doubt they were genuine."

Casting her eyes down, Margaret spoke in a small voice. "They are. They are indeed."

"I do not believe you capable of deception," he went on. "We spoke of trusting each other's good intentions."

"I spoke hastily," Margaret said, just as hastily. "Please. Forgive me."

For a while, Mr Thornton did not speak. When he did, it was not what she expected. "When our father died, Fanny was but three years old. She did not understand why we had to move out of our home, why we could not have nice things. She could only understand that her father was gone."

Margaret remembered her mother's horror of the way Mr Thornton had spoken of his early days, of having to work to earn a living. She remembered how Mrs Hale had thought he should not mention his father, stating that the circumstances of his death might have been coarse. Mr Hale had clarified that the circumstances of George Thornton's demise had been even more unspeakable, but Margaret remembered valuing what Mr Thornton had said.

He had told her family the truth that day; he had not sweetened it. Though Margaret still deplored his treatment of the workers, he had made her understand some of his opinions. He had not told them it was no topic for ladies; he had not told them they could not understand. He had spoken to them as equals. He had spoken to her that way earlier, when he spoke of the cotton industry.

He spoke that way now.

"I was raised in relative comfort until I was sixteen. I had time and a stipend away at school; I was thoughtless and full of dreams. When Father passed on, our family was brought low. I made a vow to restore our name. As I have told you, Mother stood by to support me. But Fanny was so young. She was not old enough to know what bravery was. She could not help with the work we had to do, nor did we want her to know the hardship we suffered. So we gave her everything we could. All the best, it always went to her."

Mr Thornton often did not conceal his emotions from her, Margaret realized. When he spoke of things that must have some feeling attached to them, he made no effort at disguise. None of her acquaintances in London would have openly exhibited such pain or regret.

Earlier, she had been glad of Mr Thornton's honesty, yet when confronted thus, she found herself somewhat uncomfortable. It was fine indeed when his bluntness only revealed information that was otherwise hidden to her, as a woman. It was another thing to bear witness to a man's personal struggles. Raised to believe that repression and control were superior, it was unnerving to be confronted with true feeling.

Henry, she thought, might have called Mr Thornton weak, citing an inability to contain himself. Yet seeing the strength of love Mr Thornton obviously bore his sister, Margaret could not find him weak. She did not know what to think. It made her feel as restless as before.

"You wanted to spare her," Margaret said.

"Yes." Mr Thornton looked at her intently. "She would never have the carefree childhood that I had had. We gave her what happiness we could, but we did not have the time or the means to give her . . . She needed schooling, and guidance, tenderness, friends to call her own. She needed more than a mother and brother who always, to her eyes, seemed to be thinking of business before thinking of her. She needed a real home and father, and I . . . was not enough."

Margaret's heart went up into her throat. "That is not your fault."

"That does not make it any easier on her."

"Do you think that she is suffering still?" Margaret said. "I will grant to you that she is . . . a little spoiled, but to me Fanny has always seemed happy. I think you have done your duty, in that regard."

Mr Thornton looked rueful. "She is happy around you. You give her the attention that she craves."

Smiling, Margaret said, "I think that Fanny would be the centre of attention in most company."

"Not out of the free will of that company. Most of our acquaintances, I think, find my sister tiresome. She does not know, of course. She finds them tiresome as well, because they are impatient with her."

"And will not speak to her of Spain."

Mr Thornton nodded. "I do not think she has any female friends. I cannot recall her ever having anyone she was close to. You can see now why I am grateful for your attention to her."

Mr Thornton loved Fanny in a way that she had not heard many others express love or affection. He reminded Margaret of her father, when Mr Hale spoke of Frederick—that depth of love and loss.

Yet even while the thoughts of this touched her deeply with regret, Margaret was confused. She had observed Mr Thornton treat his sister with coldness and dismissal on more than the occasion with the atlas. No matter how honest or strong, she must bear in mind that displays of emotion were not necessarily beneficial.

"What about you?" Off Mr Thornton's look, Margaret hurried on. "You said she has never had anyone she was close to. But I have noticed you and your mother . . . forgive me, but you and Mrs Thornton seem to pay her little heed."

"Excuse me?" He looked startled, ripped out of his inner thoughts.

"I am trying to trust your good intentions, Mr Thornton," Margaret said quickly. "But I can only speak as I find."

He looked at her a moment in disbelief. "I love my sister, Mrs Thornton." The tone was indignant. "You will not find that I feel differently."

Margaret cast her eyes down. They again misunderstood each other. "My intention was not to accuse you," she said.

There was a long pause. "We did not have time to give Fanny the upbringing she deserved," Mr Thornton said slowly. He seemed still defensive. "I did not have time to give her the attention she deserved. I had to be more a father to her than a brother, and I was . . . I was just a boy." His voice went hard again. "I could not give her the affection she deserved either."

Margaret's head lifted quickly. "But can you not now?"

"I love her." His voice rasped. "What do you expect of me?"

"I only mean that you should show her." The subject was entirely different, and yet Margaret was reminded of the riot, of imploring him to go down to the workers.

He was a stubborn man. Things were set in stone for him; he acted according to the way things had always been. He did not see the value of conversation as she did, did not see the value of meeting people halfway. And yet, when she told him to go down to the workers, he went. She did not think that most men would have. She said, "It is understandable that you did not have time in the past, that you were preoccupied with other things. But now you are successful, and you are free. She is older, and perhaps more receptive to sensible things you might say to her. It is not a hopeless situation."

"Receptive to sensible things?" He appeared highly doubtful. "Remember, we are speaking of Fanny."

Margaret smiled. "There is no harm in trying. She respects you; she looks up to you. She will listen to you, if you show her that you care."

"Fanny does not care for me." This blunt statement was greeted with startlement on Margaret's side. "I had to be too strict with her in early days, despite trying to give her everything. She sees me as a tyrant."

"You are wrong!" Margaret said, too surprised for anything else.

"Perhaps she also sees me as a benefactor," said Mr Thornton. He was entirely convinced. "She is aware that it is my money and my business that keep her well dressed, and in fashionable society. But she also thinks that all I care for is money and business."

Margaret was all too aware that she must have made him feel similarly in her initial rejection of his proposal. The realization of how that must have hurt him made her feel sick inside.

Mr Thornton went on bitterly, "Fanny thinks that I exist only to provide for her and take away from her. To her eyes, I am her banker. Perhaps I am her benefactor. But I am not her brother—not in the true sense of the word."

"I do not think she can feel that."

"Why not? Other people have similar opinions of me."

Margaret's head reared back. "I hope that you are not speaking of me."

"Why not?" he asked again. His words were not so vehement now; he only sounded tired. "I am not your husband in the true sense of the word, either."

Margaret fired up in heated indignation. "Because you would not have me!"

Mr Thornton's face went pale. He held so still for a moment, the skin so tight, he looked like bone. Something twitched on his face, an angry tic.

"I was not speaking in physical terms, Mrs Thornton," he said. His voice was icy.

Suddenly flustered, Margaret caught her breath. Of course he had not meant that; he had been speaking of his sister. He had been speaking of love. Still, she felt a frustration that must almost match his anger. "Then I am to blame," she agreed, "but so are you."

"Am I?" he said, still cold.

"Yes! I would claim that this society of ours is to blame instead, but we must take responsibility for our own actions. You knew how I felt, and yet you made your offer again. And I—"

"Then you still feel that way." He sounded disgusted.

She could be just as disgusted as he. Her head drawing back higher, she spoke imperiously. "You know that I do not. You know, for I have told you, that I am grateful to you for all that you have done for me."

He stared at her. "You did tell me."

"I have also told you I found your actions honourable in this regard. That does not change what either of our actions were, or the lot we now call our own. Did you doubt my sincerity?"

He kept looking at her, all the righteousness of his expression seeming to have leaked away. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with a kind of defeat. "I could never do that."

She felt powerful, that she could win this way, but at the same time experienced a stab of guilt. It was as though she had used a secret weapon she did not know she had. She did not know what it was, and yet she was terribly aware she could still use it to hurt him. It thrilled and frightened her; she longed to cast it from her, and yet did not know how.

She was confused about what had happened. He was the one who had imposed the conditions on the marriage bed.

"So much for trusting good intention," he said after a while. He was no longer angry, yet spoke in a distanced way. Suddenly it seemed she was a stranger to him again.

Mortified, she did not know what to say.

"I only meant to thank you for your kindness to my sister." His voice was a shallow husk.

"As you pointed out, whatever subject we choose seems to get away from us." Margaret could not look at him.

The carriage rocked along. Presently he stood, saying, "I will send Fanny to you. She may be better company than I just now."

"Mr Thornton," she began quickly, glancing up.

He waited.

Dropping her eyes, she realized still did not know what to say.

Another moment passed before he opened the door and left. The compartment suddenly felt cold. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

When Fanny came into the compartment, she brought Ann. Margaret, having spent years at it in Harley Street, was adept on conducting conversations in which she had no particular interest, and so they all talked without saying a single thing of importance all the way to London.

Upon reaching it, Fanny declared them a very merry party, and insisted they take the cab together. This meant they must also take Mr Latimer to escort them, which left Mr Thornton to fare for himself to travel to Tavistock Square, where Colonel Carter lived. Tavistock Square was in a respectable area, though more modest than Harley Street, and more brown.

Colonel Carter was a fine old gentleman, with a big round belly and a smart, well-appointed house. He proclaimed himself fascinated by all things modern. This and perhaps a slight diminishing in the returns of his rather small fortune had led him to invest in Northern businesses, which was how he knew Mr Latimer.

Mrs Carter was as smart and well-appointed as the house, with a trim little house cap she always wore that came just under her ears, and just over most of the greying tendrils of her hair. Being the London sort, they were far more like the people with whom Margaret was used to dealing. She felt instantly comfortable in Tavistock Square, finding its trappings more familiar than those of Milton.

Their trunks arrived with Mr Thornton, but he did not linger in the women's presence. He was off to talk business with Mr Latimer and Colonel Carter, while Ann, Fanny, Mrs Carter and Margaret were left to wash travel away and make ready for supper. For once, Margaret did not mind being sealed off from the interesting conversation. She did not want to see him.

The girl who showed them to their rooms first took Fanny and Ann the room they would share, and then showed Margaret the room down the corridor. Margaret had not considered that she and Mr Thornton would be sharing, and that here quarters would be closer than those in Milton. A house on Harley Street, never mind Tavistock Square, could not be half the size of the mansions of Milton.

In the room there were two beds with a small hearth between them, a chair and divan drawn before it. They made a neat sitting area, but by no means did they section one side of the room from the other. Once the girl had left, Margaret tried the door on the other side of the room. Instead of a connected bed chamber she found only a man's dressing room, which she realized would be Mr Thornton's.

Despite only living there two weeks, Margaret had become accustomed to the luxury of her own room at Marlborough Mills, and was dismayed to learn of the present state of things. She was not sure why this should be. She had believed herself to be willing to engage in marital congress, if only Mr Thornton demanded it of her. She knew that he would not.

In the room there was a screen high enough to shield one's self for dressing. Margaret used this, but changed hurriedly. She had never taken very much time deciding what to wear.

Fanny had complained about having no new gowns to wear in London, and Margaret rather thought Mrs Thornton would have preferred that the whole party wait so that Fanny might have new gowns enough to outdo the highest London fashions. Mr Thornton, however, had no patience for such idling, and they had not waited.

Margaret had not minded at all, but because Mrs Thornton had insisted upon all the fittings and things the week after her marriage, one gown had been finished in time for her to take with her to London. This was a fine silk gown of cornflower blue. Even though with its pearl-stitched bodice, and impractical sleeves that seemed in no way to cover any part of her white round arms, Margaret found the dress ridiculous, she could not help admiring it. It was a ball gown, though, rather than something for merely supper, so Margaret left it in the trunk and chose only the second best dress she had brought from Crampton.

When Margaret came down to the drawing-room she was far before the other ladies. Taking advantage of the time, she obtained pen and ink to dash a quick letter to Edith, to tell her of their arrival and the address. By the time Ann and Fanny came down to wait to be called to supper, Fanny was aflutter with news of a guest joining them for dinner. She was so enthusiastic, Margaret assumed their guest must be some London gentleman or lord.

"It is Watson!" said Fanny, no longer able to contain her glee.

"Mr Watson of Milton?" Margaret asked.

Fanny confirmed it. Margaret was barely able to believe it, as Mr Watson seemed just about the most unexciting person with whom she could imagine sharing dinner. Although they had not spoken often, Margaret had glimpsed him many times in Milton. He had not called on Marlborough Mills since the wedding, but from things said now and then, Margaret had gathered that Mr Watson was a frequent guest. And yet Fanny was as excited as if Watson was a person she had never seen before in the whole of her life, and Margaret could not make it out.

At last Mr Watson arrived, the men joined the women in the drawing-room, and they were called to supper. There was a bit of dance then, as to who should take in whom, as no husbands could take wives, no fathers could take daughters, and no brothers could take sisters. It also seemed apparent to Margaret that no Mr Watsons should take Fannys, at least according to Ann Latimer, for Ann secured Mr Watson's arm early on. But Fanny did not seem to notice this manoeuvring, and this resulted in Colonel Carter taking Margaret.

As a result, Margaret was seated near to Colonel Carter and Mr Watson. She was on the other end of the table from Mr Thornton, and thus not forced to make conversation with her own husband, who had not spoken ten words to her since he had left her on the train.

Mr Watson, Margaret discovered, was a lively fellow who did not care to talk about business in the presence of ladies one bit. Instead he was full of London gossip and news, which held little interest for Margaret even when she had lived in London. She thought it should hold little interest for Mr Watson as well, since she doubted he could make it down to town more than twice a year, but he seemed intent on speaking as though the affairs of London were his own.

He invited them all to a ball for Friday evening, for which his friend Mrs Blakely was on the committee. When this information made its way around the table, Fanny could hardly contain herself, and Mr Watson was most satisfied. He said that everyone important was going, and that he was to help in engaging the band.

The other thing Mr Watson spoke of, besides London and balls, was India. He had the same level of enthusiasm for it he had for London, and—Margaret thought—the same level of knowledge, and rather less first-hand data. He seemed so particularly enthralled by the Taj Mahal, that Margaret thought she suspected why Fanny liked him.

But he was kind and friendly, and laughed a lot. For all his pretensions, he was far more straightforward than many of the London folk with whom he sought to identify himself, and he was honest about not being quite in their positions. Margaret appreciated this blunt speech. If she found it coarse, she also found herself smiling at his jokes more than once.

Mr Thornton did not smile. He was engaged in speaking to Mrs Carter and Mr Latimer, she knew not about what, as Mr Watson tended towards loudness. Mr Thornton did not appear to look her way, either. The few times she cast her eyes down to him, he seemed utterly absorbed.

After supper, the ladies removed to the drawing-room. There they all became consumed again by the angle of hats in London. As the topic held little interest for Margaret, she contributed little to the conversation, and contented herself with observing it..

Fanny was over-excited by the fact of being in London and the thought of the ball in several days' time. Margaret had never thought of Fanny as a beauty, though her features were fine and regular, but now there was a glow to her. The light shone in her gold hair. Her undisguised happiness, her uninhibited delight, seemed to set her off. She looked fresh and true and healthy, nothing like other girls who were all dainty wilting delicacy. No, Fanny was no beauty. And yet, she made one want to look at her.

And this was not so very different from Fanny's brother. Unbidden, Margaret recalled Mr Thornton's voice when he had spoken of Fanny. He, too, showed himself differently than other men. He was rougher, cut from a more coarse cloth than other gentlemen, whose sole passion in life was to be bored, and to speak of love only in abstract, poetic terms. Meanwhile Mr Thornton made you want to look at him, to pay attention, even against your will.

Mrs Carter appeared enchanted by Fanny's quaint bluntness rather than put out, as Mr Thornton had stated people often were. She elicited Fanny's opinions in lively tones. She laughed at some of Fanny's more decided comments, but in such a way that Fanny giggled too. They seemed to get on splendidly, despite the fact that Mrs Carter was at least twenty years older. They were both gregarious, and delighted by the angling of hats.

Ann was more reserved. While she was perfectly civil and warm to Mrs Carter and Fanny, and cleverer than both of them, Margaret could not help the feeling that Ann disapproved of Fanny's gaucheness. It gave Margaret a feeling of unease. She herself disapproved of Fanny's gaucheness, and yet the thought that someone else might do so made her feel strangely protective. She found herself inwardly criticizing Ann's cultivation, feeling it to be an act rather than a natural expression of her true self.

The gentlemen came into the drawing-room after half an hour or so, smelling of cigars and brandy. Fanny had determined in their absence that she would play the piano upon their arrival, and she did. Margaret knew from the past two weeks in her company that Fanny was no remarkable player, but the sounds she produced were not abhorrent either. All in all, she was competent, and everyone clapped politely.

Directly after, however, Ann sat down to play, with such incredible skill that Margaret began to feel resentful—not for herself, but for Fanny. It seemed to her that with such a difference in ability, Ann would have been politer to wait.

No one else seemed to share her opinion. They enjoyed Ann's playing, clapping uproariously. Just as was polite, not a comparison was made. Furthermore, Ann's behaviour appeared impeccable; perhaps it was only Margaret's sudden sympathy with Fanny's feelings that caused her to interpret Ann's gesture differently than the rest.

Fanny, however, did not appear to require sympathy. Delighted by Ann's performance, she freely drew the comparison from which others had politely refrained. "I only wish I had your talent," she told Ann. "I do not think these pudgy fingers could ever compel such beauty. You are a true proficient! What was that piece you played?"

For the first time, Margaret realized that Fanny's professed passion for music was genuine. She had no reason to think it might not be, only that most ladies she had known in London had always professed a passion for music, whether they felt one or not. Fanny must not often get a chance to listen to a performance of true quality.

"Thank you," said Ann, seeming surprised by Fanny's praise. "It is only some mere trifle which I have recently learnt."

"Trifle!" said Fanny. "It is a masterpiece."

"Thank you," Ann said again. There was an awkward pause in which Fanny looked eager and Ann looked rather helpless. "I will find the music sheet, if you wish."

Fanny's eyes grew round. "You are goodness itself."

"I," said Ann, and looked down. "Thank you."

After the impromptu recitals the company fell into various discussions—led by Fanny at one end of the room and Mr Thornton at the other. It came as a surprise to Margaret that this brother and sister pair were easily the most engaging characters in the room. The other people present seemed to fan out around them.

Of course Margaret had noticed that Mr Thornton had a commanding presence, but it was interesting to see that this was still the case even when not in his own home, and in the presence of well-to-do people such as the Carters. Fanny, on the other hand, was a decidedly more startling phenomenon. Margaret had told Mr Thornton that Fanny could not fail to be the centre of attention, but this was because Fanny seemed to demand said attention so wilfully

Margaret did not think those who gave her that attention seemed unwilling. In fact, they seemed somehow entranced—not quite believing that they were enchanted, and yet utterly gone. Fanny was undoubtedly quite silly, but Margaret believed she could see the attraction.

There was the gleam in her eye Margaret had noticed earlier. The way she spoke about music was similar to the way her brother had spoken of her on the train. The lilt of her Northern accent seemed integrated with that deep feeling. She was easily the most animated person in the room, and Mr Watson could not stop looking at her.

Meanwhile, Mr Thornton was engaged in heated discussion with Mr Latimer. Ann, despite being the object of at least half of Fanny's rhapsodies, eventually drifted to this conversation. She had failed in repeated attempts to capture Mr Watson's attention, Margaret noticed, and still seemed embarrassed by Fanny. Mrs Carter, being a more lively sort, joined Fanny in her impassioned appraisal of Mr Handel.

"He was better than any other musician in the entire world," Fanny said, by way of making a universal pronouncement.

"Surely not any other musician," said Mrs Carter, amused. "The Continent is all speaking of Herr Liszt."

"The Continent would swoon for his hand kerchief." Fanny sniffed, then fell in to reverie. "I would die for a cloth Mr Handel had but touched."

Colonel Carter laughed. "What would you do with such a cloth?"

Fanny was prompt, as though the answer was obvious. "Sew it somewhere—into a pillow or my valise."

"But you would be dead," Colonel Carter pointed out.

Fanny lifted her nose. "Handel's music rises above the mortal coil, which anyone who understood him would surely know."

"You could hear him beyond the grave?" asked Mr Watson. "It is like something out of Mr Irving's stories."

"Yes," said Fanny, with dignity. "It is."

"I must hear more Handel!" said Mr Watson.

Both parties were so considerably invested in their discussions that they did not demand that Margaret attend to either one. She never minded this, and indeed found herself grateful for the extended opportunity to scrutinize the company.

Ann did not seem besotted by Mr Watson, despite seeming to pay him particular attention. This particular attention may perhaps have been directed by her father, as Margaret noticed Ann casting the occasional glance in the direction of Mr Latimer, as if for approval. But Ann was never particularly engrossed by what Mr Watson said. In fact, once she joined her father's company, she seemed more interested in Mr Thornton's discourse.

Margaret observed her husband's interactions with Miss Latimer with a similar interest. He was open with Ann, and frank, as he was with anyone. But Margaret noticed that he was also stiffer, and perhaps a little awkward. Wondering why this might be, she recalled an idea that she had had previously, that Mr Thornton did not often deal with many ladies.

She recalled also her thought that perhaps that was why Mr Thornton had expressed an interest in her during his first proposal: Margaret was one of the only ladies with whom he had spent a great deal of time. He might have been fascinated by her for the sake of her novelty, rather than any particular quality.

Although Ann had not been born to the same kind of family as Margaret, she was considerably more refined than many Milton ladies, who had not had the privilege of Ann's schooling. Margaret wondered whether Mr Thornton noticed this sophistication in Ann's behaviour, whether he appreciated it. Now that he was married, of course, he could not take particular interest. But he could notice.

Watching him, Margaret could not tell. He seemed painstakingly polite, smiling sometimes when Ann spoke, the kind of half-smile he sometimes gave to Margaret, but he did not seem particularly delighted. He gave Ann the full, open attention he gave to anyone he respected. He listened to what she said with obvious consideration, and spoke with that booming deliberation she had first noticed at the Thornton's dinner party.

Margaret could not hear of what they spoke. She thought that he was probably not telling Ann of latch needles or thermodynamics. She also thought it unlikely that Ann was making him feel as though he were a mere tradesman only interested in the making of money.

Mr Thornton hardly glanced her way.

After a while of watching this, Margaret excused herself, pleading weariness. The travelling had taken a considerable amount out of her. She followed a maid carrying a lamp up to her room, and there got ready for bed.

As before, she did this as quickly as could be, lest Mr Thornton pled tiredness also. She knew that she should not feel such anxiety regarding their shared room, but the nervousness did not dissipate once she had dismissed the maid and got into bed.

She thought that some of her anxiety must stem from the feeling that she should be performing those conjugal duties usually required of a wife, or even should be wanting them for reasons other than her feelings of obligation. Perhaps Mr Thornton was expecting her to be in love with him. Unknown to her, he could be was waiting for her to announce that she desired to go to bed with him every night.

And yet she thought that he could not, after their argument on the train. Perhaps he would not want to lie with her either, he had taken such offence to her comments. She knew he felt that she had been insinuating that as a tradesman he could not have proper feelings. This was not what she had meant at all. She thought that he was no longer angry, the way he had been at first when she had mentioned the unconsummated circumstances of their marriage, but she thought that he had been hurt nevertheless.

Occupied by these thoughts and regrets, Margaret fell into a fitful slumber. Her dreams were hot and breathless. Knowing that Mr Thornton must enter the room at some point, she kept waking up at the slightest sound.

After two or three hours, there was the click of the door, and Margaret's eyes popped wide open. Just as quickly, she shut them again.

It did not seem strange to go to sleep at a different time than Mr Thornton when they had separate rooms. Any other method would have been difficult to coordinate, except for those evenings Margaret had spent talking to Mr Thornton in his sitting room. But now it seemed inappropriate that she was abed when he was just walking in. Perhaps she should have waited up.

It seemed just as inappropriate that she should be awake, and he not know it. In fact there seemed to be deceit in it, with him going on about his nightly business, assuming she was asleep. Her eyes were closed; she was tucked deep into bed. If he should chance to look over to her, she would look deep in slumber. He could have no idea that her heart was pounding, that she could hear his every movement.

Yet she could see no purpose in announcing her wakefulness. She had no particular need to discuss anything with him. As likely as not he would not invite conversation; she imagined him still not in a mood to talk to her since the train. He could gain nothing from knowing she knew he was there. She would only have the gratitude of the knowledge that she had been utterly forthright.

But it was this that decided her. She had no wish to hide. And when she heard the rustle of cloth, she knew that the lie was serious: had he known that she was awake, he would of course have used the dressing room. Her eyes opened.

After a moment, her mouth opened too, but no sound came out.

He was facing away from her, and had gotten further in divesting himself than she had detected with her ears. When she opened her eyes, he was just removing his last shirt. The gleam of the candlelight revealed to her the contours of his back, the hard planes of it, the strong lines and the grey shadows of muscle and bone.

Margaret had seen bare backs before. As a girl, she had been raised close to farms where men tilled the land in Southern summer heat. As a woman, she had seen naval ports where sailors climbed rigging and tucked away sails, the sun tanning their exposed skin. But these were never backs of men she knew; these backs were disembodied, belonging to people she did not and would never know.

This was perhaps why this nakedness shocked her. She knew Mr Thornton's back. She could recognize it in a crowd, the wide straight set of his shoulders and the proud angle of his spine, but she had never seen it this way. He moved his arm and the muscles slid along each other, strange and foreign and strong.

That was nothing like a woman's back, curved with supple softness, the shoulder blades delicate, like wings, without that hard, planar toughness. There was no give in this back, no sign of gentleness, and Margaret thought that they must not all be like that. There seemed signs of labour in it, of strength, that could not be in the backs of gentlemen. There was roughness to it that Mr Thornton covered with his fine linen shirts, his satin vest, his wool jacket. In clothing he became to all appearances like a gentleman; if broader and slightly less refined, he was not all brute strength and earthy muscle.

All of these thoughts washed over Margaret in blushes of hot shame and surprise. They came with a shock that was something like fear, though she knew not of what. As soon as they came upon her she shut her eyes tightly, but she could still see those lines, shifting gold in the poor light. She knew she would see those lines when she looked at him again, even the next morning when he would be clothed again and perfectly proper. She would look at him and see beneath.

There was no possibility of letting him know she was awake. There was no way she could converse with him—he in that state! And she in this one! He would turn to face her, and she would not know where to look. She was terrified by the thought of his chest, the black hairs that she knew would be there, the strong hardness of it. She thought that she would be repulsed by it, and yet she could not stop thinking of it.

She thought of that glimpse of white in the shadows, of the proud, almost arrogant line of his shoulders. She wondered what kind of woman she was, that she could think of these things.

Worst of all was that fact that though she pressed herself to do so, she could not bring herself to open her eyes again. She felt more deceitful than ever, having seen what she had, and not owning to it. She had never been the sort of woman to feign weariness or sleep, fainting or weakness. Yet now she squeezed her eyes shut tight, and would not open them for the world.

Consumed with guilt at her own deceit, she heard the rest of Mr Thornton changing; she heard him extinguish the light; she heard him lie down.

She realized for the first time that it was the first night since their marriage they had not said good night in the traditional way of shaking hands.

When his breathing evened, she knew that he was asleep, but he was not a quiet sleeper. He did not call out, or make any vocal sound, but deep into the night she could hear him thrashing, as though his sleep was fitful.

She knew that it could not be as fitful as her own.

* * *

The next day was spent primarily at the Great Exhibition, as planned.

Margaret heard Mr Thornton rouse himself and ready for the day in the early hours of the morning. Though semi-aware of what he was doing, she did not awaken all the way, and fell into another hour's sleep once he had left.

When she did awake, she was still up before the rest of the house, as she found when she came down to the breakfast room. The footman, Brown, informed her that Mr Thornton had gone to take some air. Brown also gave her a note from Aunt Shaw, who invited them all to Harley Street for supper.

Margaret breakfasted by herself, as she had often done in Harley Street. She found she missed Mr Thornton and his mother's quiet company, but then she remembered the night before, and did not miss it any more. She did not know how she would look Mr Thornton in the eye.

Eventually the rest of the household awoke. Mr Watson called shortly after breakfast, having arranged the previous day that he would tour the exhibits with them. Around then Mr Thornton returned, already having breakfasted.

Margaret found that she could look at him without a blush, as long as she tried not to remember the vision of his back cast in candlelight and shadows. He did not, however, seem any more inclined to look at her now than he had been since their dispute on the train the day previous.

He did look at her for a long moment once they were at the Crystal Palace, and she elected to go with Fanny's party, which was determined to separate from the others to see the art portions of the Exhibition. Mr Thornton, Mr Latimer, and both the Carters were set for the machinery and raw goods portions.

"That is dull,"claimed Fanny. "If we are to go into that section first, I will never see anything of interest."

"Too true!" said Mr Watson, smiling, which seemed a ludicrous sentiment to Margaret, considering Mr Watson's own vested interest in manufacturing. "Shall I be your escort, ma'am?"

Fanny pretended not to care. "If you like." She was very bad at pretending.

Mr Latimer gave Ann a significant look. "I shall join you," Ann said quickly. She moved so that she would be closer than Fanny, should Mr Watson chance to offer his arm.

"Oh Ann," said Fanny. "Let us find the jewels."

Ann looked from Mr Watson to Fanny, then glanced back at her father. She forced a laugh. "Do you care for jewels, Mr Watson?"

"Better than cotton, anyway," said Mr Watson.

Fanny was still pretending. "Never matter what Mr Watson wants to see. He is our escort. And the mosaics, Ann! We must see the mosaics. Do you like a mosaic, Mr Watson?"

Mr Watson's brow furrowed. "There are mosaics?"

"They are better than cotton," Ann murmured, and moved a little closer to Mr Watson.

"Then it is decided!" Fanny declared. "We shall all split up."

Watching all of this unfold, Margaret said, "I should like to see mosaics as well. I will go with your party."

She thought her presence might discourage any machinations or deceptions which might be painful to Fanny, but when she announced her intent, Mr Thornton gave her such a look that made her heart pound. It was swift and sharp, so much so that Margaret was sure that no one else saw. At first she was at a loss to translate the hard set of his jaw, the downward turn to his mouth. After all, she was separating from him for the protection of his sister. She could not decipher why he would be displeased.

It was only later, when she realized there had been hurt in his eyes, that she realized he had not understood her intentions at all. All at once it came upon her that he had thought she would naturally choose his company. He had perhaps even wanted her company.

Furthermore, he had told her on the train of all the inventions he hoped to see today, and she had professed interest. He had been strangely gratified by that interest—and now he thought she must have feigned it, or that she had only been humouring him. Or else he thought that it was his company in particular she was eager to escape, despite her interest in the inventions.

But by the time Margaret realized he might be thinking this, it was too late to change her mind.

"Margaret," Fanny said, "I am so pleased! I have been teaching Margaret Spanish, you know," she told Ann.

"I did not know," said Ann.

"Yes. I am a proficient. I know ever so much about Spain, and we have been talking of it constantly."

"You are interested in Spain?" asked Mr Watson.

Margaret only wished people would stop talking of Spain; it only served to reiterate her guilt about Frederick, and the argument she and Mr Thornton had had on the train. "I am interested in mosaics," Margaret said at last, which was at least true in a vague sense.

"I am so glad you will come," Fanny said again. "We will only see the interesting things, and never speak of boring mills the entire time."

"Hear hear," said Mr Watson.

One would think that with all her relatively new infatuation for Ann, and an obvious long-lasting wonderment over Watson, Fanny would hardly care whether Margaret decided to come along or not. Fanny had deemed her brother quite decidedly a "stick in the mud", and Margaret felt certain Fanny must think the same of her. But Fanny's obvious pleasure gave Margaret to believe Fanny would have been pleased by Mr Thornton joining them also. Fanny was pleased by any attention whatsoever.

Margaret cast only one glance over her shoulder at the others as they separated, and saw Mr Thornton's broad back, encased in all the wool and cotton it had been missing last night. Feeling a flush of shame at the vision of all of that gone, of him naked from the waist up before her, Margaret was twice as glad she had decided to go with Fanny.

As if feeling her hot gaze and all her secret shame, he glanced back too, then quickly away. She could not see whether he was still hurt, or angry, or whatever it had been. She could read nothing in his gaze.

* * *

After a day spent touring the Crystal Palace separately, they dined together at Harley Street. Only Mr Thornton, Margaret, and Fanny attended. Watson had invited them all over to his own friends', the Blakelys', around the time Margaret had mentioned the invitation, and the rest of the company felt more obliged to accept Watson's request than the Lennoxes', whom they did not know. The Carters, however, gave Margaret a note to invite the Lennoxes' to dine on Saturday, as they could not accept the present invitation.

The whole way there, Margaret could feel disaster looming. She loved Edith dearly, but Edith was a sheltered girl, with a very distinct sense of her own position in the world. She could never be cruel, but she could be easily startled, and Margaret felt that both Mr Thornton and Fanny would startle her. Though Edith would be all aflutter to be polite to them, especially for Margaret, whom she loved, Margaret feared the Edith would not be able to disguise well enough the fact that she considered the Thorntons decidedly below herself.

Aunt Shaw was stalwart enough to do so, though she might disapprove of the Lennoxes' invitation. Captain Lennox was a little oblivious, and so kind to everyone that even if he made some offensive comment, Margaret thought that nothing would go too wrong there.

But Henry could be so sharp and disapproving. She did not think he would be that way toward Fanny or Mr Thornton. Henry was far too generous—and liberal—a soul to demean them. But Henry knew Margaret's particular philosophies on marriage, and would suspect that there was something amiss with hers. He was also too polite to demand to know the exact circumstances leading to her wedding, but knowing he suspected her of scandal seemed too keen a cross to bear.

This was in particular because she and Mr Thornton had never reconciled after their argument on the train. He had not left her angry, but they had not spoken alone since. Both that morning and when the parties had met together for luncheon, he had been as courteous as usual, but Margaret thought that she had detected a stiffness to it.

Furthermore, her guilt over the night before was no small consideration. Margaret still despised herself for keeping feigning sleep. She despised herself almost as much for the feelings that had coursed through her the one time she had opened her eyes. Though she was now contained, those feelings were not locked deep. She felt she might lose control of them, if Mr Thornton touched her, if he but looked at her in a certain way.

She had had to dress for tonight in her room with the full knowledge that he could enter any time. Even though she was behind the screen, this caused her considerable anxiety. Shortly after she had finished her toilet, he had knocked from his dressing room, and she had come to answer the door. His eyes had swept over her, and that was how she knew none of her shame nor heat from the night before were gone.

She wore the gown she had worn for her wedding. It was her second best, after the new one that had been made after her marriage.

Mr Thornton saw it all. His eyes missed nothing: the coral pins in her dark hair, the coral necklace at her throat. But when he spoke, he said only, "I wanted to see if you were ready."

For a moment she could not find her breath, so exposed did she feel under his eyes. Yet he was all calm politeness. She supposed he must still resent what she had said on the train, or the fact that she had not stayed by his side in the Crystal Palace. She did not fill up his mind the way that he did hers.

A full twenty seconds passed before she realized he was indicating that they might leave.

And now they were stepping out of their hired carriage onto Harley Street, and Margaret still felt guilty. She felt that her Aunt Shaw and Edith and Henry would look at her and know that she had seen Mr Thornton the way she had last night.

What was so much worse was that they all thought she would have seen him in far more intimate circumstances. Everyone would assume, of course, that the marriage had been consummated. They would expect her to have done things she could barely contemplate.

She resented Mr Thornton for putting her in this deceptive position. She was confused and resentful with him also for looking the way he had when she had seen him clothed in nothing but light, for the heat and strength in his hands when he lifted her down from the carriage.

On top of all of this, Margaret was concerned for Fanny. Only Margaret could preserve Fanny from the dangers of navigating the situations for which she had no preparation or inherent proficiency. She did not want Fanny to be disappointed, and she did not want Edith to be affronted, and she did not want Henry to look at her in that way, and she did not want to look at Mr Thornton, and she did not want—

"Margaret." Mr Thornton's voice was the steadiest, calmest thing in the world. He held her arm very firmly as they stepped up to the door. Fanny was on his other side, but Mr Thornton was turned to her. "Are you well?"

Hearing that strong sure voice, feeling the firm grip on her arm, Margaret threw her head back. "Yes," she said clearly.

There was swift pressure on her inner arm, and then it was gone. "I look forward to meeting your family," he said.

The way he said it sounded as though he was saying something else. The way he said it sounded like, You will be fine; I will make it so.

"Yes," she said.

"Look at me."

Startled, she looked up at him, and the door to Number 2 Harley Street swung open.

* * *

The evening was not a disaster, though no one would have called it a success.

Margaret felt far more at ease once they were inside the house. Of course Edith was delighted to see her, and there was much ado about Sholto, whom they had allowed to stay up to meet his aunt. The rest were all perfectly civil, and Fanny was not too gauche.

After supper, Aunt Shaw retired early, and Edith and Fanny became distracted by a discussion of London fashion. Edith seemed a little surprised by Fanny, but not put out, and Fanny, with her usual enthusiasm, was oblivious to everything but her delight in the cut of Edith's gown. Margaret wanted to stay by to smooth over any trips in the conversation, but Henry pulled her away. There was no way she could put off so dear a friend, especially one with the history between the she and Henry had.

Acutely aware of what he might think of her marriage, Margaret followed him to another part of the room. She held herself with all the dignity to which she was so accustomed, but he had never been intimidated by this.

"And how are you, Margaret?" he asked, once they were over by the sideboard. They had often used to stand here, observing Edith and Captain Lennox's more gay behaviour in company, while Aunt Shaw and some of the older or more sedate guests sat behind them in the sitting area by the fire.

Margaret told him that she was well, and asked after him.

He looked down at her with the old spark of amusement in his eye. "Am I to credit the London air for this bloom of health? Or your happy state in Milton?"

She did not think he was being pointed. She thought, in fact, that he seemed concerned. Lifting her head up higher, she answered, "I am well in both places."

"But they are quite different, are they not? Tell me. I would not know, never having ventured to Northern climes."

"It is colder there, and less green. But you knew that, Henry."

He smiled the old smile, the one that she thought made him look almost handsome, though she would never have admitted it. "You have caught me out. I meant rather the climate of society. I have heard that Northern ways are different."

"They are, but that does not make them by necessity unpleasant."

"I would never suggest as much," Henry said quickly, solidifying her belief that he only meant genuine inquiry after her welfare, and no slight upon her situation.

"I am growing used to Northern ways," she said. She thought of the day she had just passed with Fanny, Ann, and Mr Watson. There was in them all a more genuine delight in the wonders they had witnessed at the Great Exhibition than she thought anyone in London might have evinced. It made the exhibits themselves more enjoyable, Margaret had thought. She appreciated hearing what people actually thought about things, even when they were silly. "Indeed," she said, "I find I like some Northern ways."

"I am glad to hear it. What in particular interests you?"

"The lack of pretence." Margaret answered him honestly, as she was accustomed to, but she wondered if perhaps she was also picking up a Northern tendency towards bluntness.

Henry raised a brow. "You find the South pretentious?"

"Do not put words into my mouth." She smiled, for it was not the first time she had accused him of this. Their debates were not as serious as Margaret's with Mr Thornton. Henry also had a tendency to dismiss her more on the grounds of her womanhood than Mr Thornton, who seemed to forget the fact of it sometimes, when he became engrossed by a subject in conversation with her. But more than most men, Margaret had been able to have intelligent conversations with Henry, and only had to remind him of her own mind now and then.

"There is a simplicity in the speech of most Northern people," Margaret said, "which many Southern people lack. I do not mean that Northern people are more honest, only more direct. In London, one might make some comment, and to everyone it might mean a thousand different things. In Milton, one says exactly what one means."

Henry's brow stayed raised. "You admire a lack of subtlety?"

"Yes." Margaret raised her chin. "I think I do."

"That is interesting." Henry thought about it. "I have always admired subtlety. One cannot have poetry without subtlety. Even in my work, the law allows for many different things. If it was all straightforward as you say, exceptions could not be made for extenuating circumstances."

"I was not dismissing the value of subtlety altogether."

"I know." He thought some more. "I see why you would appreciate bluntness. You have always been forthright yourself."

She grinned. "Thank you."

He did not look entirely happy. "I think we have sometimes been at odds for that reason. I always mean more than one thing by the words I have said, and assumed that you did too."

"I do not think Margaret capable of saying things she does not mean," a low voice interjected.

"Hullo, Mr Thornton," said Henry, smiling genially.

Margaret turned to face Mr Thornton. "Henry would not accuse me of falsehood."

Mr Thornton glanced between them.

"Margaret was only telling me of how much she appreciates Northern frankness," Henry said. "She says that Milton people are quite direct, and she admires it."

Mr Thornton looked surprised. "I am glad there is something in our Northern ways to please you."

Margaret did not scowl, but felt the stiffness in her neck signified the same thing. "There is more than one thing to please me."

Henry looked shrewdly from one to the other. "What else is there, then, Margaret?" Henry said, almost gently. "Come, regale us with the pleasures of the North."

Turning to him, Margaret still held her head high, her dark eyes even and unblinking. "I have made good friends there."

"I believe it," Henry said. "Margaret is such a supreme character, she would make friends anywhere. Do you agree?" he asked Mr Thornton.

Mr Thornton was inscrutable. "She is a supreme character."

Henry was smiling an ironic smile that Margaret did not like, even if he did not mean anything by it. As she had thought before, he was merely concerned, perhaps a little over-interested. He bore her no ill will. He would not attack her, nor Mr Thornton. And yet she felt defensive, and found herself speaking up before she could stop herself. "I also admire the work ethic in the North."

Henry took his eyes off Mr Thornton and turned back to her in surprise. "Work ethic?"

"There, everyone is engaged in fruitful labour," she said. "And even those poor souls who are suffering may find a means to make a living, and to better that living. Meanwhile those who have worked hard and made success of it are full of ingenuity and ideas. I do not always agree with everything they do, but I see a fighting spirit. I admire it."

"With so much work, there can be little time for finer things," Henry said.

"What finer things?" said Margaret. "The finest thing is, I think, the human soul, which is fed by ideas. I think that those who care will always have time for that. A world of leisure does not always provide more food for thought."

Henry frowned. "I always thought it did."

"Why?" Mr Thornton said suddenly. "I understand how a man who is starved, who is harried by business and hard work, might not have time for big ideas, or contemplation of the infinite. But I do not understand how a man who has no experience of this—of hardship or famine, or any kind of crucible—can understand this world."

"Is Milton a crucible, then?" Henry's voice was quiet.

Mr Thornton frowned.

"I have known no personal hardship or famine," Margaret said. "But having seen enough of both of it in Milton, I feel I have a better understanding of the human plight."

Mr Thornton seemed to find what she had said just as disagreeable as what Henry had said. "We are all suffering and strikes in the North," he told Henry coolly.

Margaret did scowl then, turning to Mr Thornton. "I have also seen great things in Milton. I have seen progress, and people coming together. Today at the Crystal Palace I saw the fine things Henry mentioned, which could not have been produced without suffering, but also not without genius."

Mr Thornton looked down at her, frown fading into thoughtfulness. She remembered thinking earlier that she would become confused under such a gaze.

"Forgive me." Henry sounded abrupt. "I did not mean to imply that nothing fine might come out of Milton."

He nodded to Margaret.

During the remainder of the evening, Henry and Mr Thornton were all politeness to each other, but Margaret detected a stiffness between them. Edith and Fanny were speaking in small fits and starts. They had found they shared a mutual passion for millinery, but Edith was obviously clueless regarding what to do with some of Fanny's more choice comments. Fanny did not know how to reply to Edith's speechlessness, and often made things worse.

Meanwhile, Captain Lennox was delighted by everyone, as he often was. By the end of the evening he was quite charmed by the notion of cotton. He pronounced an interest in trying his hand at it, while Henry told him he did not have the energy for it. They consulted Mr Thornton, who wore his familiar annoyed expression, and told Captain Lennox he knew nothing of dabbling.

Margaret thought that it was true, that Mr Thornton never did anything only a little bit. He did everything with all of himself. She admired it and was grateful for it, though she was worried about how the company might take his comment.

It was the only time that evening Mr Thornton was painfully blunt, but it was also the only time Henry smiled at him in complete agreement. Captain Lennox's face fell; Edith laughed; Fanny wondered who the on earth was interested in cotton anyway, and by the end of the evening, Captain Lennox had rallied.

In fact he seemed to admire Mr Thornton for his not dabbling, so much so that the next thing Maxwell Lennox thought to try his hand at was not dabbling himself. It would be delightful, he said, not to dabble. "There is something admirable, something most thrilling, in being completely devoted to one's cause," Captain Lennox announced. "Think how much the world could accomplish, if only we did not dabble!"

"Lord," said Fanny. "Do not become a bore."

"Do not," agreed Edith. She seemed to worry that her husband might be influenced by all this Northern strong-mindedness.

"Why not?" Captain Lennox asked. "I am dedicated to your cause, my sweet wife."

"You are not," Edith told him affectionately. "You forget I am in the room half the time."

"Hush," Captain Lennox said. "I am trying to convince Mr Thornton I have the wherewithal not to dabble."

"You can do whatever you like," said Mr Thornton, who was perplexed by this mindless banter.

"What I like is this Northern dedication to things!" said Captain Lennox. "I am determined to devote myself to being devoted. And now I only need something to which to devote myself. Are you sure cotton is not an option?"

"I am sick of cotton," said Fanny.

"We will always wear linen," said Edith.

Margaret saw that Mr Thornton was becoming more and more perturbed by all this frivolity. They meant no harm, but she could see he felt they were making fun of what he must do in order to live, while Captain Lennox made a joke of it. Meanwhile, Henry looked on in sardonic amusement at all of them. Margaret did not know how to fix any of it, without declaring one side insensitive, and the other side over-sensitive.

"It is late," she said. "With more of the Exhibition to explore tomorrow, I think we might consider taking our leave, Edith. We will need our rest."

Reluctantly, Captain Lennox ceased his antics, and Edith and Henry and Fanny bid each other good bye. Margaret secured Edith's promise to come to Tavistock Square for supper on Saturday. Mr Thornton nodded to everyone in a way that was polite enough, but Margaret knew was cooler than his wont. The rest would not know, so she only worried over it in regards to what he must feel. Fanny, of course, noticed nothing, and chatted the whole way back to Tavistock Square about the cut of Edith's gown.

* * *

Margaret determined to make a different night of it than the one which had caused her so much guilt the night before.

At Tavistock Square, the Latimers and Carters had already returned from the Blakelys', and were all abed. Margaret and Fanny went straight up, but Mr Thornton lingered downstairs. Margaret thought he made an excuse so that she could be alone while she changed out of her evening clothes. She was grateful for this, and as ever, when it came to the circumstances of their night-time married life, confused.

Changing behind the screen, Margaret decided he must not want to embarrass her. He did not want her to feel pressured either, and this was kind of him. But she also suspected that the sight of her naked back would not affect him as his had affected her, and this must somehow be connected to his reluctance to demand his husbandly rights of her. Perhaps he did not want to, after all.

Sighing, Margaret struggled into her nightclothes, and then into the dressing gown. A maid had lit a fire in the fireplace between the beds, and Margaret curled up on the divan in front of it to wait.

She did not know in particular what she should say. She only knew she did not want to pretend to sleep when he came in. Nor did she wish to open her eyes and catch an unintentional glimpse of him as she had the night before. She wanted to be honest and forthright. She wanted to try to make amends for the day before on the train, for deserting him earlier when they had split to tour the Exhibition, for Edith and Captain Lennox, Henry and Fanny, who he seemed to feel judged him.

She did not have to wait long. He came in after she had been sitting before the fire about ten minutes. A startled look of surprise passed his face as he saw her there, then something like warmth. He shut the door behind him, and came toward her.

"I did not have a door to knock," she said, by way of explanation.

"You can always talk to me." His voice sounded husky. He came closer.

"Will you sit down?" she asked him.

He sat down across from her. When she did not say anything more, he shifted. "Your cousins and aunt seemed well," he said at last.

"Yes. I love them very much." She paused. "Captain Lennox is a harmless man. He meant no disrespect."

He looked taken aback. "I know what a joke is. Humour is not completely lost on me."

She felt that in its strictest sense, that must be true, because over the past few weeks she had learned that Mr Thornton did not lie. She also remembered something that had previously occurred to her: that Mr Thornton had not had many opportunities in his life to laugh. "But you felt the joke was directed at you," she said.

"No. They are jolly people." The tone of his voice was strange; she wondered whether it was envy. "That does not make it so that I can laugh at what I have chosen to do with my life."

"Everyone must laugh once in a while. Even at tragedies."

"Is it a tragedy, then?"

"No." He was so sensitive! "I think that business is important. As I told Henry, it sustains the livelihood of men. It gives them a chance to better their lives."

"Business is not all that I am."

"It is some of the best of what you are."

"Is that what you think?"

She watched him, trying to divine his thoughts. It was still so difficult to know him; every time they conversed it seemed they ended arguing. She thought that it was becoming apparent why: he had something to prove. He was convinced that she and people like Edith thought of him as she had initially accused him of being: someone concerned only with acquisition, someone without true understanding or sensitivity towards matters of the heart, or higher notions. If he had thought this even a little before her accusations, what she had said on the train must have cut deep.

"I think what I told Henry was true," Margaret said again. "There is much to admire in the work at Milton. I also do not think such work precludes understanding of higher ideals. I think that some work enables it. What I said about the Exhibition was also true: I saw genius there."

He looked annoyed. "Some of it."

"What did not meet with your approval?" she asked, realizing he was not annoyed at her.

"The guards that were rumoured for the looms have not improved." Lines appeared between his brows. "The London gentlemen can only gawk, instead of seek to understand. The dyes are still not good enough, and all the manufacturers I meet from Stockport and Rocherdale and even back in Milton will not agree with me about the wheel. If it was made a standard, then it would not cost so much."

"This was the wheel you mentioned before, to keep the fluff off the workers?" Bessy had spoken of it also.

He nodded and explained a little bit more about it. She thought that the wheel was not the only thing on his mind, but that he had business matters weighing on him heavily as well as other things. Perhaps on top of everything else, he had not been able to drum up the investors today that he had hoped to. That would have made Henry's irony and Captain Lennox's revelry more difficult to bear.

"But why would not any other manufacturer get a wheel?" Margaret asked.

"They do not see it as good business sense."

Margaret recoiled. "Business sense? What does it have to do with business?"

"Everything. They think that the benefits do not cover the cost. It would, if enough people were buying wheels to make production of them more streamlined. This would bring them down in price."

"Benefits?" Margaret asked. "Are we not speaking of human lives? You said that with a wheel, the workers will not breath in the fluff and dust. Bessy died from brown lungs. You cannot price that."

"That is what other manufacturers think. They think it is bleeding heart charity work, because you cannot put a price on it. But you can. With a wheel, the hands are healthier. They live longer. They work longer for me." It sounded like something he had had to explain before.

Astounded, Margaret said, "You are saying you have a wheel at Marlborough Mills because it is good business sense?"

For a moment, Mr Thornton merely looked at her. Then he sat back deeper in his chair. "I cannot afford to do it out of kindness, Margaret."

"I think you should do it because it is simple human decency!"

"I have been trying to tell you that that is not the way that business works."

"Then why can you not change the way it works?"

"It may change eventually. I hope it will change eventually." He seemed annoyed, as though his explanation some time ago, of how industry had grown up and how the workers had responded, explained everything. "As it stands, it is about capital. We are each of us in a race for more capital. The equipment for the mill, the latest inventions, the newest technology—not just mean wheels and guards for looms, but also new looms and needles, better brakes and engines—these are all in the name of capital."

Margaret could hardly believe her ears. "You are speaking of profit."

"Yes."

"Why? When there are children—"

"You would have me buy meat and bread, clothes and bonnets, roofs for the heads of workers?" asked Mr Thornton.

"To begin with."

He was sitting deep in the chair, which cast his face half in shadow. She could not read his expression. She did not want to read his expression. "Then you would have me be their lord. You would take what right the workers have to their own homes, to choose their masters, to be free men. You would remove their ability to rise above their current station, through their own industry and capital they have earned by living honestly and working hard. You would have us return to the feudal system."

"I would not," said Margaret, hotly. "I am saying merely that one such as Bessy, one such as Boucher, does not have the opportunity to rise above his current station. They are so poor; they are so downtrodden, there is no opportunity left."

Mr Thornton's jaw was hard. "My grandfather was not a gentleman, Mrs Thornton. My father was not a gentleman. Do you think 'Thornton' is the name of aristocracy? I come from weavers and from working men, not from lords."

"I do not disparage you for your forefathers," Margaret said, frustrated. "I disparage your unkindness."

"You disparage my ideals." Mr Thornton stood up so that he was looking down at her. "Have I been so unkind to you?"

Margaret stood up too. "You know that I am not speaking of you as a man, but as a master."

"The best of what I am," Mr Thornton repeated her words from earlier. His lip curled. "These London gentleman think it is only something to play at. That it is a game. But it is real, and ugly, and there is no good way to do it. I understand it as these Southerners cannot. But I understand other things, too."

"How can you—"

"I do not wish to defend myself to you." He cut her off, pale and angry, but most of all looking weary. "Not now, anyway. I have been defending myself all day." He rose to go. "Go to sleep. You are tired. Good night, Margaret." He turned and walked out of the room.

It was the second night in a row they did not shake hands.


End file.
